


Saudade

by tunteeton



Series: The Untranslatables [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After That Very Much AU, Anal Sex, Angst, But John Is Just John, Canon-Compliant Up To the Hounds, Case Fic, Dom/sub relationship, Dubious Science, Fake Non-Con Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, John Is a Master at Getting Kidnapped, John's in Denial About Everything, Love and Fluffy Feelings, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Con Domming, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Slapping, The Fate Is a Bitch, Threatened Torture, Verbal Abuse, all the feelings, submissive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 96,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>saudade (port.): a deep and melancholy longing for something or someone that is gone and not coming back. Homesickness, an emptiness in one’s soul, a love that remains after the loved one dies.</p><p>John loses Sherlock, gains Sherlock and learns to never, ever, ever pray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Branch

A sudden gunshot echoed in the empty warehouse. John twitched forward, fearing for the worst. Where was Sherlock? He wanted to shout, to scream for him, but that wouldn't do. The men didn't know that he, too, was here. Sherlock's whole plan depended on them not knowing. He had to be alone, Sherlock had explained on that infuriatingly logical way of his. He had to appear to be relapsing, to be out of control. Therefore, no John. No surveillance. Mycroft had been furious, going as far as raising his left eyebrow at John and sending him away on his own, no black government cars for him that day, no. Not for John bloody Watson, losing his flatmate to the London drug scene since the year 2010.

Sherlock had been gone for two weeks before John had got a text. In it, just an address, a time and those damn initials. John had informed Lestrade, pocketed his gun, patted Mrs Hudson carefully on the shoulder and slipped into the night. Bloody idiotic geniuses making them all lose their minds and their sleep.

John hated the drug cases with his whole being. They hit too close to home, made Sherlock itchy and restless. This had been by far the worst to date. John had watched his best friend spiral down towards the final decision to go undercover for a month. It wasn't that the case itself was so problematic, it was the scope of it, the whole mess of the people surrounding it. It was like damn Moriarty all over again, the spider and the web. They hadn't found the spider this time, no matter how or where they looked, and finally Sherlock had snapped. He was gone the same night, leaving John with nothing but half-hearted explanations and an even more vague promise to be in touch. Which brought John here, to the warehouse in Havering, in the middle of the night, trying to save Sherlock Holmes' ungrateful arse once again. If only he could locate said arse first, that was.

The problem with loud noises and huge empty warehouses was that the sound could be coming from any direction. John moved silently but steadily in the darkened space, careful to keep in the shadows of the biggest shipping crates. There were men's voices, and he paused, straining to hear. Somebody was muttering. What the hell was going on here? First the gunshot, now whispering. What was the point of keeping quiet after such an explosion of noise? 

The space between the crates grew bigger and lighter. He stayed in the shadows, peeked carefully around the corner, and almost stepped on Sherlock. 

The detective lay sprawled on the dirty floor in the same old, faded jeans John had last seen him, two weeks ago. He was still, and terror raised in John's throat, but then Sherlock moved, took a breath, and John's world came back together. He dropped to his knees, still behind the corner of the shipping crate, and whispered to his friend.

“Sherlock?”

A long neck swayed towards him slowly. Something was wrong. John's pulse elevated again. There was a phone on his hands without any conscious decision. He would give Sherlock a minute to explain himself, and then he would press the panic button, and Mycroft would take over.

“John.” It was only a breath, almost more an exhalation than a word. John's finger hovered over the icon on his touch screen. The doctor in him shoved the soldier to background for a moment.

“Are you hurt? Can you move?” 

“Not advisable just now. Watched.” There was a long pause between the question and the answer, and Sherlock's voice carried no power behind it. No deep baritone here, just a whisper of a sound. John raised his eyes from his friend's prone form and looked around the empty space in front of him. It remained just that, empty, but John had learned to trust Sherlock. He slipped the phone back to his pocket and secured his hold on the gun. 

“Where?” 

“Back wall, second and third crate from left, another two on the fourth - ”

“And another one just behind you. Your gun, doctor Watson.” An unpleasant voice interrupted Sherlock's quiet explanation, and John froze. Sherlock tensed, but didn't move from his spot on the floor.

“Please. Unless you want my men to shoot at him again.”

 _What?_ John dropped his gun, his instincts battling between assessing this new threat and his friend's implied injury. His momentary confusion was enough for the man behind him to kick the gun away from them, swiftly turn back and hit John's lower ribs, hard.

The concrete floor was cold and unforgiving. A booted foot connected with his stomach and sent him coiling around his protesting guts. The pain, however, was somehow grounding. This was something John knew about, this he could handle. _Don't think about Sherlock._ He wheezed on the floor, ordering his traitorous lungs back into a working shape, before raising himself to his knees and peeking at his adversary. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his face clean-shaven and his eyes cruel. John hadn't seen him before, but he recognised the type. He was sure that there was more violence to be had here this night. 

Sherlock coughed and whimpered, and John fiercely wanted to turn, to make sure he was all right. Instead, he rolled himself between the man and his friend, acutely aware that he was not much of a protector just then. His muscles tensed, wanting to attack, but the warned shooting kept him from acting. The man chuckled.

“Why don't you join him, doctor? We were waiting for you anyway. Mister Holmes here was quite out of it when I borrowed his phone, but I must admit he has trained you beautifully. You came just as ordered. Commendable, really.” 

John swore under his breath but did as commanded. The phone was still in his pocket. He'd only need a single touch to reach Mycroft. He slipped his hand into the pocket while taking his place next to Sherlock and tried to navigate the phone without seeing it. It felt strange and rectangular under his questing fingers. John tucked himself right by Sherlock, hoping to keep his pocketed hand unseen and out of focus. Sherlock remained boneless on the ground, his left hand cradling his thigh, his eyes weirdly reflective. He didn't turn to look at John, keeping his gaze fixed on the crates on the other side of the hall. There was no blood in sight, but Sherlock's subdued behaviour finally started to make sense. 

“You've drugged him.” The man shrugged.

“It's poetic, don't you think? Anyway, he's much easier to handle this way. Docile, even. Really, you should have tried it at home. I hear he can be quite the handful. Of course, it's a little late now.”

The man was trying to get a rise out of him. John refused to take the bait, wanted to keep the man talking. “What do you want with us?”

“Nothing, really. To move you out of the way. Your interest in our operation has proved detrimental.”

“You're the drug boss, then.”

The man's face grew cold.

“And you are the dead man talking.” He raised his hand, and there was a gun, pointed not at John, but at Sherlock (unacceptable), and had John managed to call Mycroft, or maybe the Chinese take-away restaurant he'd ordered from last night, and this whole situation was getting really bad really quickly.

“This, doctor Watson, is how you get shit done. No games, no puzzles. This was a business meeting. And it's over now.” His finger moved on the trigger. Sherlock shifted, his eyes finally coming to focus on the gun in front of him.

The finger pulled. John leaped. There was a gunshot, a scream and a slump from Sherlock, shouting from many directions, and finally all the lights went out. After that, it became a little difficult to comprehend what was happening. 

_Please, God, let him live. Let me save him. Save Sherlock._

–

When John was shot in Afghanistan, he should have died. The fact that he came alive out of the operating theatre was nothing short of miraculous, and kept him awake on many nights, wondering. The wound in itself was not automatically deadly, but it had taken the rescue team too much time to secure him and get him into the field hospital. He should have died even before they found him, alone on the deserted wasteland. What had kept him alive? The days between the ambush and him being found were the most painful ones he had ever lived. Staying alive wasn't a relief, at that point, it was a punishment. He was being punished with life. The shock of his continuing survival had numbed him for months. He moved back to London and still felt weak and disbelieving, even angry. Sure, he had prayed for life on those first, awful hours. After that, he had only prayed for mercy. The first wish was granted, the second, not so much. 

He hadn't prayed after that. Not before this moment, afraid and blind on the cold concrete floor, in the dark warehouse somewhere in Havering. Had the bullet hit home? Where was Sherlock? John flailed, groping with his hands, trying to find his friend in the darkness. Sherlock had been just there. Where had he gone?

The lights turned back on and John froze. Something was very wrong. No, everything was wrong. What the hell had happened?

Sherlock had disappeared, the broad-shouldered man had disappeared, the whole damn crate hall had disappeared. John found himself crouching on the floor alone near the security door he had used to get into the complex. There was no way he had moved that much in the few seconds the lights had been out. Was he hallucinating? Had he been shot, and was now unconscious?

He checked his own body, incredulous, but apart from the bruise he was sure was forming over his ribs, he was fine.

The silence was cut by a gunshot, again. John jumped to his feet, his hands going automatically for his gun. It wasn't there, of course. The man had kicked it away from him. He was moving before he had time to think about it, heading straight back to the crates. He needed to find Sherlock. The phone was back in his hands and he glanced at it, looking for Mycroft's panic number. What he saw stopped him on the spot and almost made him drop the little machine.

It wasn't his phone.

Or, more correctly, it wasn't his current phone. It was the old, cheap one he'd used before Afghanistan, years ago. He didn't own this phone any more.

Except that here it was, on his hands. As old and nicked as he remembered it to be. Impossible.

His old girlfriend was on speed dial. There was no Sherlock, no Mycroft on the address book. There was his mother's number, and she had died four years ago. John felt dizzy and blinked at the thing. The phone had one of those old, greyish little screens with rectangular numbers showing the time. It had been past midnight when John had read Sherlock's text, but the phone showed a time only a bit past nine pm. Needless to say, the text wasn't there either. The newest one on this phone was dated to almost three years ago. It was from Harry, admonishing him for not keeping her up to date on his 'soldiering ways'. John remembered that text. He had got shot the next day. You tended to remember things like that.

There was shouting. That got John moving again. Sherlock. Concentrate on Sherlock, freak out later. Get Sherlock to safety.

At least the warehouse was how he remembered it. The crates were where they should be, the shadowed areas the same than before. That made him feel a lot better, a bit of familiarity in this weird dream – because it had to be a dream, surely? If only he had his gun with him. He was moving in a hostile territory, acutely aware that there were at least five – if Sherlock had been correct in his drugged state – armed men against him and that Sherlock wasn't on the top of his game and probably injured. He didn't remember Mycroft's number, nor Lestrade's, so it was only him, then.

Except. He felt stupid and embarrassed and relieved at the same time. There was that one number he could call, even with this wrong phone. The fact that he hadn't even thought about it before, so used to his normal ways of communication, was quite sobering. He was connected to an emergency operator in seconds and quietly gave his name and address, told about the gunshots and a potential victim. He was asked to wait for the police before the call disconnected.

The hell would he wait. He was done being sensible. Sherlock was still out there, alone with the trigger-happy criminals. He had stalled enough. The back-up was coming, it was time for action. He circled the crated area to the right, hoping that the men were still where he had last seen them. The light was sparse here, the shadowed areas bigger and darker. He should have taken this route the first time as well. He crept through the shadows, ears and eyes poised for any hidden sounds or movements, but the area seemed abandoned. Had the men left? Why would they do that? It wasn't like John had been a very efficient protector, he had basically walked straight into the trap. The men were probably looking for him just as he was looking for them.

 _Let them,_ he thought grimly, _if that means Sherlock is left alone._

He turned the last corner and stopped dead on his tracks. Not searching, then.

The men were lounging, (lounging!) on the opening behind the crates, all five of them. They seemed relaxed. The boss was sitting on a small wooden crate, a cigarette in his hand. One of the others was whistling. Two were playing cards. One was even eating a sausage. It was like a bloody picnic. A criminal picnic held in an empty warehouse, at night, measly minutes after threatening to shoot two men in cold blood. John felt incredulous, and also a bit underestimated. What on Earth was going on in here? There had been gunshots and shouting just a moment ago, and now this. And where was Sherlock, again? This night was going on the weirdest circles.

While John was gaping in the shadows, one of the card-playing men drew a gun and took a clearly drunken shot at a dummy on the far wall, missing it by metres. The others roared in laughter, only the broad-shouldered man kept his composure at the horrific attempt at target practice. The shooter cursed and dropped his gun to the floor, where it lay, forgotten. That explained the noise, then. But Sherlock was still missing. John scanned the floor, but there wasn't a single hint of his friend's whereabouts. Moments later the sausage-eating man finished his late-night snack and turned to the boss.

“What about some fun, boss?” He asked and the others leered.

“You are too fond of him.” It was the whistler. The first man shrugged and kept his eyes on the boss. He contemplated his cigarette for a moment before nodding. The men ceased their activities, and suddenly there was some kind of predatory interest growing in the space. John shivered. What was going on?

“Sherlock!” It was a barked call, a commanding sound coming from the boss. John tensed.

Something moved on a shadowed corner, and then John's world came crumbling down the second time during the same night. It was Sherlock, and he was in bad shape.

His clothes hang from his bony frame, his hair was too long, greasy and dishevelled, and his face and bare arms were covered in cuts and bruises. He was limping, and John could see even from the other side of the clearing that his eyes were dull. He made his way to the crate and the boss, and without a word dropped to his knees in front of him. It was the most heartbreaking sight John had ever seen, and it made him itch for vengeance. The four thugs inched closer, their attention solely at the two men near the small crate.

“Shirt off.” Another barked command, another heart-stopping moment where Sherlock silently complied, his abused arms shaking but presenting no fight. His chest was more of the same, bruises and cuts zigzagging over each other, ribs and shoulder bones protruding way too clearly. The boss reached his hand, and he was touching Sherlock's face, and suddenly there was a knife in his other hand, and _that_ hand was moving towards Sherlock's chest, and _why_ was Sherlock just kneeling there, his eyes empty, and then John snapped.

He was on them before they had a chance to react, his hands closing on the forgotten gun on the floor. He shot the boss first, needing to get that knife away from his battered friend. Only then the others started to move, turn towards him shouting, surprise and fear evident on their faces. John finally heard sirens, and the thugs did too, because they hesitated for a second, and John used that second to shoot the whistler who had reached his hand towards his back, clearly grasping for a weapon. The sausage-eater threw himself behind the small crate and his bosses body, while the drunk just sat with his jaw hanging stupidly open. The other player, however, reached for Sherlock, took a fistful of his hair and jerked him on to his feet, between John and himself. Sherlock stood where he was put, not making any effort to defend himself or help John.

“One movement and he gets it,” the man warned and raised his own knife to Sherlock's throat, and John's mood was getting fouler by the second. 

“Throw the gun to the floor,” the man directed him, and John obeyed, snarling his teeth.

“Frank, go get the gun,” the man barked to his drunk associate, but before the other man had time to move, a great voice bellowed in the warehouse.

**“Kneel!”**

Both Sherlock and the man holding him went down, fast. John stood, gaping. What on earth was going on?

 **“Let the hostage go!”** It was the same, commanding voice. The muscles in the man's hand contracted clearly, but he kept on holding the knife to Sherlock's throat, his mouth a grim line of determination.

“You are surrounded. Let the hostage go and back down, or we will shoot.”

There was a tense moment, but finally the man lowered his hand and dropped the knife. Sherlock remained kneeling, and the man took deliberate steps away from him. The policemen stepped forward from the same shadows which had protected John a moment ago and gathered the criminals together, handcuffing them and leading them away. Meanwhile John made a beeline for Sherlock, who stayed motionless in the middle of the busy room. What was wrong with him?

“Excuse me, sir”, said the policeman with the commanding voice, “are you the one who called the emergency number?”

“Yes, doctor Watson,” John answered, offering his hand. The shake was fast and professional.

“Is the hostage all right, doctor? We have a paramedic and an ambulance waiting if he needs treatment.”

Sherlock hated hospitals. John ran a mental check-list through his mind, looking for major injuries which he couldn't treat at home. Surprisingly, his friend's wounds seemed to be superficial.

“Sherlock, are you all right? Do you need the hospital?” John knelt down in front of him, looking for broken ribs, bones or deeper lacerations. Sherlock just stared at the floor, not giving any indication that he knew what was going on around him.

“He seems to be drugged out of his mind, but otherwise better than I feared. I think I can take care of him at home. A blanket would be appreciated. Please, Sherlock, can you stand?” The policeman chuckled.

“He has heard the Voice telling him to kneel. You have to be more forceful than that. To tell the truth, I'm surprised you yourself are still standing.”

John stared, uncomprehending. The policeman waited a moment, then sighed and muttered something about shock.

 **“Stand up, Sherlock.”** It was the same bellowing voice from earlier. Sherlock rose at once, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. John turned on the other man.

“Gees, you don't have to shout at him!”

Now it was the policeman's turn to stare. “Are you sure you are all right, doctor? Do you feel steady? I can ask the paramedic something for shock if you need it. This has been a traumatic experience, there is no shame in that. He needs your presence unhindered after being treated like this. He's likely to be under for quite a some time.” 

“I'm okay. Of course I can take care of him.” He knew his answer was stiff, even impolite, but John was getting close to the end of his rope. There were too many weird things going on this night. He just wanted to get back to Baker Street with Sherlock and make sure his friend would be all right.

He was handed an orange blanket, which he promptly threw over Sherlock's pale shoulders. There was a short questioning and a promise of a visit to the station tomorrow before they were allowed to leave the crime scene and go searching for a cab. John led the silent Sherlock away, getting more and more worried by the minute. Sherlock was like a moving doll, obediently going where he was taken, no resistance or curiosity in his movements. He allowed John's hand on his arm and followed two steps behind him the whole way out of the large warehouse. At the street he slipped into a cab without as much as a glance at the driver.

_What happened to you, Sherlock? What's going on?_


	2. The Forgetful Family

There were no keys. John cursed and searched through his pockets, but they refused to surface. Had he dropped them in the warehouse? He gave an exasperated sigh and turned to Sherlock, who had been slowly coming back to himself during the long way home. He was standing on his own, not needing John's arm to keep upright any more. His eyes were still distant, but there was some small flicker of his usual watchfulness in there as well.

“I don't suppose you still have your keys?”

Sherlock seemed to wake up and looked, for some reason, ashamed. It was such an unusual expression on him that John had trouble interpreting it at first. But there it was, Sherlock Holmes cringing away from him and refusing to meet his eyes for having lost his keys while being kidnapped. John's worries sparked again. Whatever was going on in his head, it clearly was not good.

“No, Sir.” A hoarse whisper, a beat, then: “I'm sorry, Sir.”

It was the first time he had spoken since the blackout on the warehouse. The voice and the words turned out to be too much for John, who felt that the end of his tether was fast approaching. Didn't Sherlock realise who he was?

“Sherlock, it's me. It's John. You don't have to apologise, or.. Look, it's just John. It's okay, Mrs Hudson should be at home. We'll wake her up.” That gained him no reaction from his friend. Maybe he really was in shock. John needed to get him inside and force some sweetened tea into him. And those cuts and bruises had to be checked out as soon as possible. There was always the possibility of an infection or even something worse. He kept on seeing the knife, hold so close to Sherlock's jugular vein.

Sherlock studied the pavement while John knocked on the door. It was some time before Mrs Hudson opened, already in her nightie, eyes focusing straight on Sherlock. Her assessment was quick and correct.

“Oh, poor lad!” A strict stare at John: “Are you responsible for this, young man?”

Everybody was acting out this night. John found himself gaping at her before giving a sharp shake of his head.

“What? Of course not. Can you help me get him up the stairs, he has hurt his leg.”

Together, they managed to ease the limping detective up into 221B, where John deposited Sherlock on the sofa. Mrs Hudson stayed over him, clucking worriedly, while John went to retrieve his medical kit from the kitchen.

It wasn't there. Instead, he found Sherlock's old, meagre kit in its place.

“Sherlock! What have you done with my kit?”

Not surprisingly, there was no answer from the sofa. Sherlock didn't stir and Mrs Hudson took turns at doting at him and glaring at John. Maybe she had taken a double dose of the evening soothers. Maybe the hip was just worse than usual. Not his problem, anyway. John sighed, collected the little kit from the kitchen cupboard and brought it back into the living room. He rolled the orange blanket over his friend's feet and set to work. Mrs Hudson edged away from the room, muttering something about the late hour. John paid her no attention, his focus elsewhere, on the tableau of injuries littering Sherlock's pale skin.

It took time to sort through all of them. They had been inflicted over a period of days, and John's anger surfaced again. He shouldn't have let the git go by himself. He really hated the drug cases. The treatment had to hurt, but Sherlock suffered through it silently, not a single complaint falling from his chapped lips. This, too, was wrong. Everything was wrong, and John was grateful to be able to drown his confusions and worries in the simple, repetitious task of treating wounds. This was something he still understood, still excelled at. Underneath him, Sherlock gave a little sigh and fell asleep.

When he finally deemed the work completed, John rose up to stretch his aching back. Sherlock was still resting peacefully, and he dared to take a moment to climb the stairs to his bedroom for spare, clean clothes. He opened the door to his room and flicked the lights on. 

The world wasn't playing fair at all that night.

His possessions were gone. The room was exactly as he remembered it being the first time he had visited the flat with Sherlock, long time ago. The furnishings were there, but otherwise the room looked unlived in, the bed naked and the table empty. Even the old rug Mrs Hudson had given him had disappeared. Furious and more than a little upset, John ran back down the stairs and took a first good look at the living room. The furniture was in its place, Sherlock's stuff littering every available surface. John's laptop was nowhere to be seen. The kitchen was more of the same. The apples he had bought just the other day were missing, the fridge full of experiments. John rushed to the bathroom. Only Sherlock's toothbrush stood in a glass by the sink, only Sherlock's soap and shampoo on the ledge by the bath tub. It was like John was erased from the flat, like he never had lived there at all.

Wild-eyed, John returned to the living room. He had half a mind to shake Sherlock awake and demand an explanation, but he was still sleeping despite his rampage around the flat. He had to be exhausted. John slumped into his chair and let out a creative litany of curses. What was his life? He grabbed his phone, ready to call Mycroft, Lestrade, _anyone_ to make sure he wasn't going crazy, before remembering the state of said phone. He flung it at the wall without conscious thought. This was fast becoming too much. And still Sherlock slept.

“Fuck all of this,” John told the room in general and Sherlock in particular, retrieved the phone and set the timer to two hours. He dragged a mattress from his friend's bed to the floor of the living room and crashed down on it. The years as a medical student and then in the army had taught him to get his sleep when he needed it, where he needed it, and so it didn't take long for him to fall into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Too soon he jerked back awake with a growing headache and pain on his ribs. He checked on Sherlock (still fine, still sleeping), drowned a pill for the pain, reassigned the alarm and went straight back to sleep. Next time he was roused before the alarm to the sounds of moaning. The clock on the wall told him it was almost five a.m. and the room was starting to get lighter after the dark night hours. Sherlock was tossing and turning on the sofa, his movements disrupted by the orange blanket. John checked him for fever and was relieved to find his brow warm, but not hot. Just bad dreams, then. He shook his friend gently and called his name, until the jerky twitching stopped and Sherlock settled back into a calm sleep. John again changed the time of the alarm and went back to bed.

[ _“Why would I need you?”_ The question came back to him through the time.  
_“No reason at all,”_ John answered, mumbling, before sleep claimed him again.]  
__

He was woken at half past six by a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Sherlock was kneeling on the floor by his side, his grey eyes mostly cleared of the drugs and the red dressing gown thrown over his bony shoulders. John offered a tentative smile and stretched, heard his vertebrae crunch after the restless night.

“Are you all right?”

Sherlock gave a minute nod while staring at him, his quick eyes flickering around John's prone form.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” His voice was low, curious. John tensed. Oh, no.

“What? Sherlock, no..” He was cut short by a familiar explosion of deduction coming from his apparently amnesiac best friend. As if the situation wasn't bad enough otherwise.

“Your clear knowledge of the medical procedure suggests a doctor, but your appearance and actions last night spoke of military experience, thus army doctor. Now, the make of your mobile phone is old but fits the template of active military service abroad...”

“Sherlock, don't. Please. Stop.” It was heartbreaking to hear that again, John couldn't take this after such a night. His voice grew louder, more aggressive. “Sherlock! Stop!”

And his friend reared backwards, eyes widening, scared. He dropped his gaze, muttered a terrified apology and fled, still limping, to his room. John rose from the mattress, ready to go after him and apologise himself, when Sherlock returned. And oh no, this was absolutely too much. This was not fair.

Sherlock had _gagged_ himself, to keep himself from talking, and he dropped to his knees in front of John, stared resolutely at the floor, and offered him his riding crop. John, not understanding, but feeling quite sick, accepted it from his hands. Sherlock kept his position, clearly waiting for something. John looked at him, at the crop, and finally he started to observe, and not just to see, and what he observed made him beyond angry.

“No, Sherlock, this is not good. I will not hit you. I don't know what's going on, but drop this charade now, drop it right now.”

Not a reaction from his friend, apart from a slight shaking starting from his hands and slowly spreading to his whole body, until Sherlock was trembling helplessly like a leaf in the wind. Still he wouldn't budge from his spot on the floor. John stood, frozen, bewildered.

“Sherlock, please stop this. Please explain this to me. You scare me.”

Tenderly, carefully, Sherlock raised his head. His pupils were black and huge, his lips forced wide around the terrible gag and his expression desperate. The gag. John had forgotten it in his terror of the riding crop. The crop was dropped to the floor in his haste to get the thing away from his friend's face. He opened the lock and pulled, but Sherlock bit his teeth hard around the thing, not wanting to let go. There was panic in his eyes now, panic and fear. John was sure he was going to throw up. Sherlock whimpered, the dressing gown slipped down from his right shoulder, and all the cuts and bruises came back into focus in the cruel morning light. John's limp came back with vengeance as his leg finally gave up and he dropped, hard, into the mattress.

Sherlock kept his position, his breaths coming in great heaves through his nose, but he didn't let go of the gag. He was pale and damaged and John wanted to cry. Instead, he reached out and begged, “Please let it go, Sherlock. Just let it go.”

And, wonder of wonders, he did. He spat the gag onto John's waiting palm and spoke as soon as his mouth was free of it, as if he couldn't keep the vicious flow of words inside a single second longer. The deduction burst out of his mouth like acid, cold and careless. Like John didn't matter. Like he was just another stranger to be ripped apart for Sherlock's entertainment. And maybe, that was exactly what he was.

“Heightened emotional responses suggest a bond with the subject matter, but since I'm positive I haven't met you before last night, the conclusion is that you have stumbled upon a similar hostage situation before. Not so surprising, factoring in your both careers and the tendency of paramilitary groups to abduct citizens vulnerable to Bliss for the dual purposes of causing terror and confusion on the home field. The strong response could therefore be explained through a previous traumatic situation which could also factor in as a possible PTSD trigger – explaining the failure of the leg muscles there - and I'll have the gag back right about now, I think.” His gaze locked to John's own, grey eyes managing to be both defiant and begging.

John listened, arm outstretched. Only when the confused detective reached the challenging end, John snatched his hand away with the slobbery gag. At least Sherlock was now talking. To think he'd lived to see the day when he was happy to hear him deduce his personal failings. To think he'd lived to see the day when Sherlock was so wrong about them!

“Don't you remember me at all?” John sat back on the mattress, putting some distance between them and feeling absolutely wretched. He had lost Sherlock. What was there in his life, if he had lost even Sherlock?

Sherlock inhaled, a look of surprise on his face. John thought back and understood – he had been waiting for an attack, a verbal or even physical dressing down after his outburst. John remembered that same look from their first cab ride together, when Sherlock had explained his initial deductions to him. What had he done, then? Oh, yes.

“That,” said John, “was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” He meant it too. How Sherlock could be bruised, cut and drugged out of his mind, and still keep on observing was beyond him.

He didn't actually know what kind of reaction he had been expecting, but Sherlock going totally boneless on the floor hadn't been that. The man just dropped from his knees to his side, eyes huge and black, cheeks pink and mouth slightly open. He seemed to have momentarily trouble breathing, but his eyes never left John's face.

“Sherlock?” Was this some kind of an attack? He didn't exactly look like he was in pain.

“Thank you, Sir,” he stuttered with a rough voice, and then, trembling, “please, Sir.” 

“Please what?” John asked, alarmed. “Are you hurting? Just breathe, Sherlock, breathe in and out. Don't try to speak. Just breathe. In and out. That's it.” He put a hand on his friend's shoulder and pushed gently in sync with his own breathing. Slowly, the loud heaves evened out and he relaxed against the floor, eyes still on John's face.

“I'm sorry, Sir,” he whispered finally, weakly. There was an unmistakable blush on his pale cheeks now. Sherlock was embarrassed.

“Don't worry about it. You've had a rough fortnight. And cut the sirs. Just call me John.”

“Yes, John.” It was uttered totally without irony. Sherlock had to be still quite out of it. John decided that the best course of action was to haul the detective back to the sofa and get some food and tea into him. There must be something edible in the flat, somewhere. Probably not in the fridge, though.

In the end, moving Sherlock turned out to be much easier than he had dared to hope. The man was on his feet as soon as John suggested it. The meal required more work, but he did find some toast, Marmite and even the apples after some rummaging. The tea water boiled while he was searching. Sherlock sat on the sofa and watched him quietly as he moved around the kitchen. John offered him an encouraging smile.

“It must be quite weird for you to see me in here, since you don't remember me. Don't worry, the memories will hopefully surface soon. I live here as well. We have been flatmates for almost two years. Eat.” He carried a filled tray back to the living room and sat down by his friend, offering him a piece of toast and praying that he would accept even half of it. His body dearly needed the energy, but Sherlock could be nothing but stubborn if he so decided.

Which was why he was so surprised when Sherlock ate the whole toast without a single complaint. “Well done,” John smiled, pleased. “Do you want some more? Maybe an apple?”

The perpetual blush got a little deeper, and Sherlock nodded before stealing a worried glance at him.

“You insist on living here.”

“Well yes, I do.”

“Yet when I look around, there isn't a single thing in here which I don't own. There is nothing of yours, except the clothes and the phone which you carried in last night.”

His headache was coming back. Sherlock had a point. Of course he did. He was the pointiest man John knew.

“Look, I can't explain this. Last night was... weird. I'll sort it out. Maybe this is Mycroft's idea of a practical joke.”

Sherlock stiffened. His eyes turned distrustful. The nice pink haze was gone from his cheekbones.

“You know Mycroft?”

“Of course I do. One can't become the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes and not meet his older brother. The meddlesome git that he is.”

That seemed to calm Sherlock down somewhat, but John was not at all surprised at the next question.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes, he did. And no, I didn't take it. Even if we could have split it. I promise to think it through the next time – and for your information, I'm not accepting the money then, either.”

That earned him a chuckle, and John allowed himself to relax. Sherlock had to be better if he could worry and laugh about Mycroft.

“I must still disagree with you,” the detective continued, sobering again. “You don't live here. I have never met you in my life.”

“Yet I know so much about you.”

“Yes, and isn't that curious. Thank you for the tea, by the way. It's perfect.”

“Of course it's perfect, you great idiot. I've been making tea for you for quite a while now.”

“We'll see about that. Who lives downstairs?”

“Mrs Hudson. She's our landlady, not the housekeeper.”

“Oh. What about Mr Hudson?”

“Got himself sentenced to death in Florida. You helped. That's why we can afford this flat at all, she's giving us a big discount.” 

“How many types of tobacco ash?”

He shouldn't have been surprised at Sherlock's lightning fast turns of thought. Yet, the tobacco ash was far in the past. John tried to dig the information up, but wasn't quite sure.

“I don't remember, I can't remember everything, was it two hundred and forty?”

“Humph. Two hundred and forty three, obviously.” That was close enough for John.

“ _Obviously._ Admit it, Sherlock, I know you.”

“Yes. It's evident that you believe that. In fact, you seem keen to make sure I trust you, even with this ridiculous story. But what about Mrs Hudson? Did _she_ recognise you?” His tone made it clear that Sherlock believed he already had his answer, and John didn't have time to react before he was on his way downstairs, yelling for their landlady. She appeared from 221A, hands wet and a dish towel over her shoulder. She was as familiar to John as everything else around him. Why, then, did he feel a pang of dread when her eyes slipped right over him without a hint of smile on her face? 

“What is it, Sherlock, dear? Is something wrong? Do you have your patches on?”

John stopped on the stairs. Since when had Mrs Hudson worried about Sherlock's habit of plastering himself with nicotine patches? Had he been keeping something from John? Sherlock didn't seem to care that his secret was now out, instead he pointed at her and then at John, dramatic as ever.

“I'm fine. Do you know this man?”

This was it. This was John's moment of truth. She would recognise him, and Sherlock would regain his memory, and everything would be fine again. But the same, carefully polite face John hadn't seen in two years turned back at him.

“Well, we met last night when he brought you home. I don't think I quite caught his name. Has he caused you all this trouble? Should I call the police?”

And this was more than a bit not good. John crashed at the stairs, staring at them both with horrified eyes.

“No, no, please stop pretending. This is not funny. Please just stop this.”

Sherlock levelled his cool gaze at him. John had seen that expression many, many times, but never before had it been focused at him. He wanted to wince and hide under the stairs. It was Sherlock's 'your motives are suspect and I will dig out your life's story from the soles of your shoes and the nails of your fingers' -look. 

“I think it's time you left, mister.. John.” No surname. Sherlock didn't remember his bloody surname. John had been steadily approaching a break-down, and this was the last straw, the point of no return. He took one look at the two of them, his _family_ , and there was no recognition. Fine. Have it their way.

John Watson pulled himself together and out of the door of 221 Baker Street without another word. Outside, the autumn sun had hidden behind a dark wall of clouds, and London lived on, ever and ever. He let himself get lost in the masses of the passers-by, leaving his home and his family alone. He was not welcome there any more.


	3. The Parking Lot, Rematch

The black car found him late that night, sitting forlornly on a bus stop near St. James' Park. In retrospect, it really wasn't such a great place to mope in Mycroft-governed London, but John didn't care. He was only interested in the can of beer in his hand and his own, all-engulfing misery. 

He had fled to see Lestrade, but wasn't allowed into NSY. He had went to the police station as promised, because John Watson Took Care of Things Even When Sherlock Was a Dick. Afterwards he knocked on Harry's door, but she wasn't at home. Finally he had found himself by Mike Stamford's apartment block, heart in his throat. Mike was one of his oldest friends. If Mike didn't know him, he would be at a loss.

Mike had been at home. Mike had opened the door, taken one look at him, and there had been recognition. By gods, there had been recognition, and something akin to a shock.

“John! John Watson!”

John could have kissed him.

“Yeah, well, Mike.”

He was herded inside and straight to the kitchen. There had been coffee, and biscuits, and questions.

“What has happened to you? The last I heard of you, you were in Afghanistan, getting shot at.” Here, Mike hesitated. He clearly wanted to say something more, but bit his tongue, looked at John and waited for his answer. And hadn't they had this conversation already? John shrugged. At least Mike remembered him.

“I got shot.”

Mike's round face darkened.

“Only the word is you got yourself killed in there.”

John stared at him.

“Well, I'm obviously alive.”

Mike fidgeted on his seat, looked at his hands.

“John, I don't think you understand. I was in your funeral. I've visited your grave.”

The coffee had ended on Mike's kitchen table. John himself ended standing on a cemetery in eastern London, staring at a tombstone with his own name written on it with golden letters. The time of death was the day of the ambush, the day when he got shot. Later, when the drinking had started, he showed Mike the wound. Later, he was vehemently happy that Harry hadn't been at home. At the moment he was just numb.

“I think I'm going crazy,” he had confided in Mike.

“I think, I, that you should tell Harry,” Mike had answered, contemplating his third beer. Or maybe it was fifth, John was a bit unsure about that. There had been more important things to do than count. He giggled.

“Look at me,” he told Mike, “I must be one of those dead-alive-things. Zombies. I'm a beer-drinking zombie doctor.”

“Harry,” reminded Mike, a bit unsteadily.

“Yes,” answered John, “in the morning. Now, I'm going to get pissed. I can't meet her when I'm pissed. It's bad influence. Very un-doctorly.”

“She thinks you're dead. She's going to be _furious_. I'm happy I don't have to be there.”

And the truth of the matter was John didn't want to be there either. He wanted to be back at Baker Street, with Sherlock. Sherlock, who didn't remember him. Had he imagined it all? No, it was impossible. John's life was impossible, and he'd had enough alcohol to admit it. His mood darkened again at once.

Which is why he'd declined Mike's offer of sofa. He needed some air. He needed a lot of air, and there was air to be had in St. James' Park. There were also ducks, but John was generous. He could share his air with ducks.

But was he ready to share it with Mycroft?

His phone was ringing. He knew who it was without looking. The ubiquitous cameras were certainly zoomed at him, somewhere, right at this moment, but he wasn't interested enough to search for them. Was he so thirsty for the attentions of a Holmes that he would accept any of them? Was he willing to deal with Mycroft drunk? It was a terrifying thought, and enough to help him make up his mind. He answered the phone.

“Fine,” said John Watson, “but let me sleep this away at first.” 

He got into the car.

Which was how he ended up spending his night in one of NSY's cells, a new low which he hadn't managed even with Sherlock and his stupid plans. There was a mattress, and a sink, and painkillers. The latter had to be courtesy of one Mr Holmes. The wrong Mr Holmes. He sighed, closed his eyes, and hoped to dream of normalcy.  
__

The interrogation didn't start as he had imagined. Yes, they were in an abandoned parking lot, yes, there was Mycroft with his ever present umbrella, but his first words to John? He had excepted something menacing, something clever and insightful, what he hadn't expected was this:

**“Kneel, John!”**

John stopped, and gaped, and then had to laugh at the look of pure surprise on Mycroft's face. It was too much, too hilarious, and there was only one thought on his slightly hungover mind at the moment. It was definitely not kneeling.

“So, Mycroft,” he asked, “how's the diet?” The minions in the shadows moved restlessly, but nobody shot at John, so his unorthodox greeting couldn't have been a total fiasco. Not more than Mycroft's own, anyway.

“Fine,” answered Mycroft, apparently too shocked to sneer properly, “so the report was valid, then. I did wonder. Tell me, how long have you been like this?”

“Like what? If someone here is acting out of the ordinary, it's not me.” John put on a brave face, but a picture of a grave remained in his mind. Maybe he had really gone round the bend. Maybe he was living in some kind of PTSD-triggered psychosis. Maybe he should have confided in his shrink, after all.

“It's Mr Holmes, please,” Mycroft corrected him stiffly. John snorted.

“I think we are way past that, and this as well,” he answered, gesticulating around the parking lot. “I'd hoped we'd moved past this part in our relationship. To cafés, at last. It was nice, speaking with you in a café, last time.” He sounded a bit wild, but really? If he was in psychosis, he was surely permitted some wildness, wasn't he?

Mycroft glanced at him, his eyebrows drawn together. John snapped his mouth shut. For all Mycroft was Sherlock's annoying older brother with weird ways of showing his affection, he was also a tremendously powerful man, and something was wrong with John's life. Maybe he shouldn't take his stress out on him. Then there was that damn little notebook on Mycroft's hands again. The one with John's life story printed inside like a little fairytale, every nuance of his psyche laid bare for the elder Holmes to analyse and pick apart. As if he needed any help in that.

“John Watson,” read Mycroft Holmes from his notebook, just like once before, “a medical doctor and a captain in RAMC. Presumably killed in action while serving in Afghanistan. Your records mark you as a weak dominant, but that is clearly a faulty assumption. Unlike the rumour of your death.” Here he stopped and cocked his head at John. “We dug you up. Run the DNA tests and checked your dental records, too. There's no doubt that the corpse in the grave was a John Watson. So who are you?”

There was so much wrong in that, John didn't know where to start. Moral won, in the end.

“You desecrated my grave? I was there just this morning!”

“You were in grave this morning?”

John sputtered.

“No, no, I was visiting it, not in it, not like _that_...”

Mycroft silenced him with one imperious headshake. 

“We investigated John Watson's grave. This situation seems to be unclear to you, but you are in fact not dead. We can easily redeem that, but I'd like some answers first. Now, I ask again. Who are you?”

“John Watson,” said John Watson, feeling stupid.

“That little charade has quite run its course. I want some real answers, and I want them now.” The menace, always present when dealing with Mycroft, had moved to the foreground. It was almost like debating with a forest fire, or an active volcano. Tread carefully here, screamed John's reflexes. Think before you speak.

“Take my blood,” John blurted out. “Let me prove it to you.” _But I know you. I know all of you. Why don't you remember me?_ A Mycroft who didn't recognise John was a formidable enemy indeed. One he could very well do without. _Play nice with Mycroft Holmes, John. Be careful._

The last time Mycroft had hold his hand had been to examine his tremor. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that the blood test was already prepared, and that Mycroft was skilled in taking it, himself.

“Why do you care so much?” John asked when his blood was being drawn. “Surely there is a minion for this sort of work.”

“You claim to know me so well. You tell me.”

John recognised a challenge when he heard one, and it didn't take long when he really thought about it. What provoked Mycroft into taking a closer look, a more personal approach, every single time? Of course. Obvious.

“Sherlock. You are doing this because of Sherlock.”

“What is your relationship with my brother, 'doctor Watson'?” He heard the apostrophes around his name. Mycroft was way too dignified to wiggle his fingers in the air.

“I don't know any more,” John confessed. “Yesterday, I was his flatmate and thought of him as a friend. Now, he doesn't remember me. As doesn't almost anybody else, either.”

“Yes, the honourable doctor Stamford,” Mycroft chimed in smugly. “He has already been questioned. He thinks you are who you insist being.”

John sent a silent apology to Mike. Being kidnapped by Mycroft was not nice on a good day. Being kidnapped by an irate Mycroft, when you didn't know the man, was downright terrifying. John knew. He had first-person experience. He made a mental note to buy Mike a pint or two, the next time they met. If Mike would still agree to meet him at all. Oh Lord.

“What did you do with Mike?” There was alarm in his voice, and John let Mycroft hear it. It would have been pointless trying to hide it, anyway.

“He's safely at home. I am not a monster.”

The blood was taken away. Mycroft wiped his hands with a little sterilising cloth and continued to silently judge John with his whole demeanour. By his expression, he was found badly lacking.

“You are deflecting.”

“I'm not.”

“Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. His tendencies have rendered him incapable of keeping them. So tell me again, doctor, why are you trying to impose yourself into his life?”

Finally John started to understand what was going on. This was the first impression all over again. This was Mycroft the overprotective older brother, ready to threaten and manipulate to keep Sherlock safe. John might know him better than that, but Mycroft didn't. He was behaving on the assumption that John was a stranger who had just happened to hook up with Sherlock. While Sherlock was hurt and drugged. No wonder the other Holmes was a bit edgy. John let himself relax, carefully uncoiled his fingers and lowered his shoulders. He was not a danger. He could never be a danger to Sherlock.

“I rescued him from that place,” he stated plainly. He didn't ask where Mycroft himself had been. He didn't want to provoke any further. “I took him home and dressed his wounds. He was out of it most of time. If I wanted to hurt him, I could have easily done it then. I'm a healer, Mr Holmes. I'm not a monster, either. When he got worked up in the morning, I left. I don't wish any harm on your brother. Surely you can deduce as much.”

His little speech was met with a heavy silence and a searching gaze. He was being weighed, his story taken apart. He wished he had a better one to offer. What if Mycroft decided he wasn't worth the trouble? What if that grave in a small cemetery in eastern London would end up with two John Watsons under the headstone? He had no illusions the elder Holmes wouldn't be able to manage that easily. When the silence stretched uncomfortably long, he started to fidget. Damn Mycroft and his power games. 

“What is it now?”

Mycroft relaxed slightly. The umbrella twirled around in his grasp.

“Now, we wait for the test to be completed. Meanwhile, you are going to tell me about this remarkable presence of yours. You have resisted both me and the police with quite an audacity. Do share your secrets.” It was clearly an order, but John didn't have any idea what he was being asked. Mycroft didn't look particularly accommodating, so he decided to come clean straight away. 

“I'm sorry I don't understand.”

 **“Kneel, John!”** It was, if possible, even more forceful than the first time. There was some commotion among the minions. John gaped. Mycroft grimaced.

“You claim to be a captain in Her Majesty's army. Don't play stupid. Explain. Are there drugs involved? You realise I could have you held indefinitely just for this?”

John shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“I honestly have no idea what you mean.” Mycroft's face grew some degrees colder.

“You are playing with fire here, doctor. I have no patience for this game. Believe me when I tell you that there are ways to extract the information from you.”

“But I don't know what's going on!”

A female minion materialised on Mycroft's side and held an electric reading unit in her hand. Were John's test results in there? That had been quick. Of course Mycroft would have some super-advanced version of the gadget for his personal use.

“Sir, you have to see this.” The woman's voice trembled when she handed the unit over to her boss. It didn't take long for Mycroft to scroll through the results. What he saw made his eyebrows almost meet in the middle. John craned his neck. He hadn't known his blood was so interesting. Mycroft raised his eyes.

“Doctor Watson, you are going to come with us.”


	4. Experiments

What followed was one of the most exhausting and confusing day of John's life. He was taken to a private laboratory of sorts, deep in Whitechapel. There a team of medical personnel practically ripped him apart: more of his blood was drawn, he was poked and prodded, his reactions and reflexes were measured. They went the whole way, from listening to his lungs and heart to CT-scanning his brain. Just when John imagined they were done with him, another team of specialists came to take him to a MRI. He had no idea how much time had passed, Mycroft was nowhere to be found, and nobody seemed to be inclined to answer any of his questions. He was served a sandwich sometime in the afternoon, just before meeting an urologist, of all people.

Next, a swarm of psychologists and psychiatrists descended upon him. It was like the most personal, disapproving job interview of the world, and Mycroft showed up to sit through all of it with him. They wanted to know everything from his childhood, family and friends, to school and army and adult life. When he thought to protest, a look from Mycroft was enough to shut his mouth. At some point in the middle of it, he was given another sandwich. There was a clock on the wall. They drilled him for five hours. It was night by the time they were finished. John squirmed, yawned and desperately wanted to sleep. Mycroft never even changed his position, never took his eyes off John. Damn superhuman Holmeses. 

Then he was unceremoniously left alone in a small waiting room. There was a bench, a table with some magazines, a pot of plastic flowers, two locked doors and an overbearing smell of disinfectant. John sighed in defeat and slumped down on the chair. His moment of peace was however short-lived, because soon one of the doors opened and a nurse entered. He had a tray of EEG electrodes and a reading unit with him, and soon John's scalp was glued full of the electrodes. The nurse worked efficiently but quite gently, like all the staff there seemed to do. After he had exited the room, the speakers on the corners came alive to broadcast Mycroft's voice.

“Only do what you need to do,” the elder Holmes said, and what was that supposed to mean? He wasn't given time to ponder on that, because the speakers were taken over by other people, men and women with loud, angry voices, telling him to do all kinds of things, from the now often-heard kneeling to easy things such as standing up or closing his eyes, to absurd things like reading the magazines or singing aloud. He sat on his bench and listened to them all, counting at least eight different persons, obeying no one. Finally a woman's voice told him to sleep, and that was the first order John genuinely wanted to follow.

“Well, I might, if you lot just let me,” he snapped back. A static filled the room, and then the connection was shut. A moment later, the nurse returned to remove the electrodes and left him still another sandwich. The nurse opened the other door when he left, closing and locking the first one on his way out.

Behind the door was a small bedroom and an adjoining bathroom. John lounged around for a moment, decided that no one was coming for him, and headed for a shower. He felt dirty and violated and his head was full of glue. Mycroft owned him some answers tomorrow morning. Now, however, there was a hot shower to be had and a soft mattress to rest on. John intended to enjoy them.

–

He was woken up by the sound of his phone ringing. It was barely past eight and it took him a moment to remember where he was. Then he was groping for the phone, hoping against hope that it would be Sherlock. The number was however blocked, and that only ever meant Mycroft.

“Morning, Mr Holmes,” he quipped, trying not to sound like he had been sleeping a minute ago. Mycroft probably had the room bugged, but John could at least try to keep up the appearances.

“Good morning, doctor Watson,” the elder Holmes brother answered, as calm as ever.

“Was that a doctor Watson without irony, there?” John asked, hoping that this weird mess would finally start to unravel.

“Our tests indicate that you are indeed who you claim to be. Which raises some interesting questions.” It was probably as close to an apology as Mycroft managed. John decided to count it a victory.

“Excellent,” he answered, brightly. “Breakfast?”

“I'll be there in half an hour. Be ready.” Apparently, both the Holmes boys considered politeness optional, John mused when he heard the blunt statement and the click indicating the brief call was over. Well, half an hour left him ample time to take a morning shower. Too bad he didn't have any clean clothes with him. He still sported the same shirt and jeans than he had worn in the warehouse, three days ago.

Precisely at half past eight there was a short tapping on the door, as if its state of being locked had been at all up to John. This game Mycroft played with him was really starting to get irritating.

“I'm sure it's not locked,” John shouted, “after all, it was by no means my decision to bunk in here.”

“And it's good to see you, too, doctor Watson,” Mycroft deadpanned from the now opened door. Sherlock would have glared. John just plastered a weak smile on his face and asked after the breakfast.

It turned out to consist of even more sandwiches. 

“Don't your people ever eat anything else?” John asked from behind his coffee. Mycroft looked unnatural in the bleak break room of the lab, a dash of proud naval blue in the middle of beige and light yellow. He didn't sit down or touch anything, like he was afraid the colour would bleed. John had no such qualms. If they prodded him full of needles and took pictures of his brain, he could certainly use their sugar and eat their ginger biscuits. The last he waved at Mycroft.

“These are good,” he informed him, “keep buying them these, and they'll forgive you all the sandwiches.”

“If you are quite done,” Mycroft replied stiffly from his vantage point by the door. John waved some more.

“Go ahead. Explain.”

“You should not be alive,” Mycroft established, his shoulders looking almost unhappy.

“You do know how to open up a conversation, but I must agree with you there. Though it's hardly news by now.”

“What did you mean by that?” It was a quick question, a weapon of precision. John had seen the damage it could do. Now he just shrugged.

“When I got shot in Afghanistan. I really should have died.”

“Yes, you should have. And you did.”

John sneered. “Please, not this again. I clearly didn't die. I'm here.”

“Yes, and isn't that curious. And still, you did. If not for the infection, then certainly because of the after-effects. It's fascinating.”

“And now you are just speaking in riddles,” John complained, annoyed. “Come on, you are a Holmes. You like to show off. Explain it to my puny little mind.”

Mycroft's smile was as thin as a razor blade. “And there's that, too. You know so much of us. But tell me, doctor Watson, about your formidable presence.”

They had been going on and on about that yesterday, as well. John still had no idea what they meant with it. He told Mycroft as much, again. The little notebook, looking a lot fuller today, made another appearance. 

“You were marked as a weak dominant before your death. Yet we have been throwing some exceptional Voices at you when you were tired, hungry and hungover, and the only reaction we got back was truly underwhelming. Your independence is perplexing. What happened in Afghanistan, doctor Watson? What _really_ happened?”

John blinked, but when the apparition of Mycroft-gone-round-the-bend didn't disappear, he blinked some more.

“Er...? I don't understand.”

There had been an almost starving expression on Mycroft's face, but now it transformed into one of pure sneer, and that looked somehow so much righter on the elder Holmes' face.

“You kept saying that before, too. Now tell me, what part of it exceeds your intellectual capacity?”

And that was more like it. This, John could deal with. This, he could manage.

“Your people, and you too, keep insisting about presence, and dominance, and talking, and it makes no sense to me. Also, I'm not dead.”

He was being observed, Holmes-style, for a second, and whatever Mycroft found in his expression, it made him do a double take.

“This is primary school stuff! How can you not know about this?”

And didn't _that_ bring back some memories? Never in thousand years had John imagined being on the receiving end of those words, and from Mycroft of all people. He sent a mental apology to Sherlock. It really was annoying. But he was a better person than that. He could take the incredulity. Just give him some answers already, damn it.

“Explain, please,” he proposed mildly.

“But it's your secondary gender!”

They were back in Baker Street, John on his chair, Sherlock, fuming, on the sofa. What does it matter? What does it mean? For a brief, absurd moment, John wanted to push his fingers against his scalp, to ruffle his stiff hair. He wanted to turn his back and sulk.

“Nope, still don't get it.”

Mycroft's eyes did that Sherlock-thing, and something happened around his mouth and nose. If this were his brother, John was quite sure he'd be looking at that 'oh'-face he made when he realised something complicated. Apparently, John had said something right. To think that he'd be playing this role for both of the brothers some day!

“Not the most luminous, I know,” he accepted, hoping to finally get some explanations. Mycroft snapped out of his deduction-high and gestured for him to stand up.

“You'll need to return to your room now. I'll arrange for you to get all the information you need. Thank you, doctor Watson, this little chat has been most clarifying.”

Mycroft walked him back to the little bedroom, shoulders stiff and umbrella swinging, but something had changed in his demeanour. By the door, he even stopped and asked John an honest-sounding question.

“Tell me, where would you like to go from here?”

“Baker Street,” John answered without thinking. He never wanted to go anywhere else. If only Sherlock would have him back.

“Yes,” mused Mycroft, “that can be arranged.”

And it was victory for John. It had to be. He had passed whatever test it was he had been trying to pass. He was allowed back home. He wanted to clap his hands, he wanted to hug Mycroft. Instead, he walked stiffly into the little bedroom, feeling warm and indulgent. It was game, set and match for John Watson.

He was left alone for a moment, and then there was a polite knock on the door, and soon after, one of the minions entered with a laptop and a white styrofoam box. John groaned.

“Please don't tell me there are sandwiches in there.”

“Indian takeaway,” the minion answered before turning the laptop on for him. “Try the bookmarks. All the basic information you should need is there. Have a nice day, doctor Watson.”

John set the takeaway on the table and focused on the computer. There were about a dozen pages bookmarked. He chose the first one, which seemed to discuss _Homo Erectus_ of all things, but before he was more than half-way through, his phone rang.

“This can't be true,” he complained as soon as the line was connected. “This doesn't make any sense. Someone has edited all manner of weird stuff into this.”

“I thought you might want to vent a little,” came the smug answer. “Tell me, doctor Watson, would you like to be my brother's guardian?”

“Sherlock doesn't need a nanny,” John snorted.

“Yes, he does. Third bookmark from the end of the list. I'll be in touch.”

–

John spent the day reading. The links Mycroft had provided him with discussed the evolution and culture of the human race. Most of the information John had learned before and accepted as a truth. However, there were some glaring discrepancies, things which seemed erroneous or downright fantastical. A lot was made out of the supposed secondary genders, which classified people by their tendency to lead or be led. The terms used made John's ears blush, as he had only encountered them before in a very specific sexual context. Dominant and submissive. He thought back to Mycroft describing him matter-of-factly weakly dominant, and had to wonder. Either Mycroft was way too much into some kinky stuff John didn't want to know about, or something more was going on here.

He took a break at midday when the headache started to return in earnest and amused himself by classifying people into these new categories. Mycroft and Sherlock were both dominant personalities. Lestrade, as a detective inspector, was also professionally dominant, but was he personally more on the submissive side? At least he was awfully eager to bend himself to Sherlock's will, if that meant more solved cases. Harry was submissive and bitter about it, Mike was casually, almost jovially submissive. John even mulled over himself and had to agree with Mycroft. Compared to the Holmes brothers he was much more easygoing, but he could easily hold his ground. The army taught person a lot about professional submissiveness, which had enabled John to keep living with Sherlock, and even enjoy it.

The hyperlink Mycroft had mentioned on the phone was poetically titled 'The Mystery of the Male Malleability', and John gave up on it after the third paragraph. It was by someone much too enamoured with their subject and frequented words like 'star-crossed' and 'obsequious'. Some phrases were even written in French, with no translation provided. Anyway, he couldn't understand how it pertained to Sherlock, who was anything but 'pliant and fawning'. He wrote it off as a rare case of a Holmes being mistaken about something and went on to read about strong-willed military generals and political figureheads, which made much more sense to him.

By four in the afternoon another not-Anthea came to gather John and his possessions up. A black unmarked car took him to Baker Street, while the woman, who had introduced herself as Sappho (and John knew enough to take the hint, and didn't hit on her once) provided him with new identification papers, a passport, a key to 221B, a phone and even a bank account. The last two John politely declined, remembering his earlier discussion with Sherlock. Sappho wrinkled her nose at the refusal.

“With all due respect, sir, you might want to reconsider.”

“Oh?”

“Getting some clean clothes should be a priority.”

“Oh.”

In the end, he took all the offered items. Sherlock could huff and puff as much as he wanted, John needed those socks and pants.

And now he was here, at the front door of his own home, and he felt like he was fifteen again and about to ask Lily out for the first time. This really was awkward. Should he knock, or use the key? Should he call first? No, he was already here. No calling now. _Just man up, Watson, and get on with it._

He knocked. Time passed. He knocked again. Apparently, Mrs Hudson was out and Sherlock couldn't be bothered to come downstairs. Typical. He let himself in with Mycroft's key and headed upstairs with some apprehension. 

The colossal git was sprawled on the sofa, hair artfully tussled and clad only in his pyjama pants and a worn tee-shirt. He didn't even open his eyes when John entered.

“You came back. I did wonder.”

“Hello to you too, Sherlock. I'm happy to see you aren't dead yet.”

That earned him a raised eyelid. “And why would I be dead?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you were quite badly beaten and cut the other night.”

“But that was ages ago.”

“Three days, Sherlock. I take it the wounds didn't get inflamed? A thank-you would be nice.”

The detective finally deemed John important enough to open both of his eyes. He was studied for a moment, and then Sherlock was up, walking over the little table, coming to him, and there was something almost feline in the way he moved. John took a step back, but Sherlock just kept pushing closer, stopping only when their chests were basically touching and John had to crane his neck to see his face.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” He wouldn't back off again. He wouldn't.

There was warm breath on his hair. “And how exactly would you like to be thanked, doctor? I can be very good.”

Something shifted and suddenly Sherlock was on his knees, staring up at John with grey eyes and an almost-pleasant expression. His face was on the level of John's crotch and he was still way too close. John did back off. Fast and with expletives.

“What's the matter, Sir? Isn't this why you came back?” The words were scratching, but there was something missing from his friend's eyes which stopped John from storming out of the room. He took a couple of grounding breaths and decided it had to be an experiment. Anything could be an experiment. It had become his mantra during the last two years. The psychological ones were always the worst. Just think of Baskerville. An experiment. Right.

His chair was still there. John sat down, leaving Sherlock kneeling in the middle of room, pouting and looking like an overgrown child. John rested his chin on his hands and tried to make sense of the situation. But it was one of Sherlock's madder moments, and no sense was to be found. Sherlock started to fidget on the floor. John raised his hand, half joking.

“No, stay there. I like you where I can keep an eye on you.”

It shouldn't have worked, but Sherlock obeyed. His eyes flamed, but he stilled himself and kept his position. John trained his face into army-blankness, hiding his surprise behind stoicism. Had Sherlock maybe been hit on the head, as well? The man was biting his lip, for God's sake!

“You have to explain this experiment to me, Sherlock,” he continued conversationally. “I believe we had agreed you'd drop the really mental ones.”

Sherlock mumbled something, eyes fixed on the floor again.

“I can't hear you.”

“Not an experiment, Sir.” The voice was sullen, familiar. The words, not so much.

“Then what?” Really, had he yearned to get back here, to this? Who was the mental one in this picture?

_[“What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.”_

_“I'm never bored.”]_

“A transaction.”

“A – a trans _action?_ I save your arse and you offer to do – do what, exactly?”

There was a blush creeping up to his friend's cheeks, and John was angry now, truly angry. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John shut him up. He couldn't listen just now. God knew what Sherlock would say, what he would answer.

“No, you listen to me now. This is more than a bit not good. This is insulting, and I don't even know who's more insulted here! You don't get to behave this way. You can't do these things, offering to be whipped or – or whatever this was just here. You can't, because I don't accept it. I won't do it. I'll never do it. I don't know where this came from, you've been all wonky ever since...” and then he got it. Oh no. He inhaled, deep and sad.

“It's the drugs and the abuse, isn't it? They messed with your head. I saw what happened in the warehouse, you know. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should have seen it earlier. I'm so sorry.”

And then he was up from his chair, and crossing the room, and crouching down in front of Sherlock, and hugging him, and since when had his body taken over, because he was not planning to do these things, they just happened, and there was a litany of apologies pouring from his mouth, he really shouldn't have let him go that night, so long time ago, he was so, so sorry. Sherlock was tense and unhappy in his arms, but John held on, consumed by his guilt. And slowly, so very slowly, the detective started to relax, to accept the touch, to lean into it. John cradled him and petted him, and he should really get his body back under control, but this was good and right and Sherlock was _right here_ and not being abused by mindless thugs, so he probably could keep on falling apart for a moment longer.

Sherlock sighed and nestled his head against John's shoulder. John, unthinkingly, raised his hand to his friend's throat, and everything went to a temporary hell.


	5. To Touch And to Speak

He was sprawled prone on the floor before he knew what was happening, Sherlock's fist having slammed against his chin. Sherlock himself scuttled backwards, away from him, eyes blazing and furious. John eyed him warily, poking a finger against his aching jaw. That had been a marvellous right hook, he was happy he hadn't bitten his tongue in half from the force of it.

“You should make up your mind,” Sherlock spat at him, his tone derisive, his form shaking. “What do you want, Sir? Don't you dare toy with me.”

It was the drugs. It had to be the drugs. Sudden mood swings and paranoia were a normal part of withdrawal. John stayed on the floor, made himself small and non-threatening, kept his voice calm and neutral.

“What did they give you?”

Sherlock turned his back and moped.

“Sherlock, answer me. This is important. You may be in danger.”

His only answer was a snort. John moved closer, placed a tentative hand on his friend's shoulder. Sherlock tensed noticeably, but kept his mouth shut.

“Sherlock, there could be some quite serious symptoms during the withdrawal. You know this. You might need medical attention. Now, if you recognised what they gave you, it would make the coming hours easier. We should probably go to the hosp-”

He didn't get any further before Sherlock had turned on him and wrestled him to the floor. John yelped, surprised, but his friend was weakened and John still had soldier's reflexes. Even their size difference didn't work well for the detective, who soon found himself on his back with a calm-yet-competent captain Watson straddling his hips and keeping his hands on his sides. Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed, and tried to wiggle free from his grasp. John made sure not to hurt him, but kept him pinned where he was.

“I'd really prefer it if you didn't try to hit me all the time,” John stated after Sherlock's attempts to flee had ceased. “I take it you don't want to go to the hospital.”

To his surprise there was no anger on his friend's face. In fact, he looked almost relieved, in so much as a man kept on the floor against his own will could look relieved. All the fight melted out of his limbs, but John didn't dare to move yet.

“Sherlock? The hospital?”

“Not the hospital, Sir. Please.” The blown pupils, the rough voice from three days ago were back. This was Sherlock in his post-warehouse -state, subdued and oddly polite. John felt like a real bastard, but he still decided to make the most out of the moment.

“And the drugs they gave you?”

“Intravenous Bliss.” The answer was immediate and trusting, but it was not a name he recognised. Must be some of the new designer ones.

“Any known side effects?”

Sherlock kept silent, but became even more boneless, if possible. He turned his head away and bared his throat, the motion somehow terribly open and vulnerable. John could both see and feel his pulse, and it was calm, relaxed, despite their awkward position. Was that a no, then, or did the drug cause dreaminess?

“Sherlock? Everything okay?”

Sherlock let out a small sigh, his throat barely moving with the breath. John let go of his wrists and took hold of his chin, turning his head back towards himself. Sherlock's eyes were liquid grey around the huge pupils, his expression uncharacteristically open. The dark curls framed his thin face like a negative halo. He didn't fight or protest John's touch. John became immediately worried. This was too fast a change, too weird a way for Sherlock to behave. He put his fingers on his friend's throat to measure his pulse. It was on the slower side, but steady and strong. Sherlock lay, limp and and patient, under him during the whole operation.

It was at this point when John became aware of two things. The first was that he had spent the better part of five minutes straddling Sherlock's hips on the floor, pinning him into place. The other was that Sherlock was hard under him, and not just in an 'accidentally rubbing against you' -way. His gaze returned to the grey eyes, and Sherlock stared back at him, unblinking, absolutely no shame in his expression.

_[“Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes,” his past self was announcing indignantly, “but I'm not actually gay.”]_

Oh, well. That answered that question. John hadn't ever lost any sleep over the mystery of Sherlock's sexuality, but he had accepted a long time ago that it would never have anything to do with his own. Of course he had wondered, at times. It was impossible not to, with Sherlock looking and behaving the way he did. But John had come clean and asked straight away, and he had received a clear answer, and that had been that. But now, what was he to make out of this?

_[Sherlock, explaining that first deduction in the cab, his demeanour lost and lonely. Sherlock, standing so very close to him at the circus, even closer than Sarah. Sherlock, on his knees at the pool, frantic and stuttering. Sherlock, drugged and miserable, calling out for him. Sherlock, terrified and wild-eyed, lashing out at him in Devon.]_

How long had he, this?

And oh _God_ , how long had John, himself?

There was a finger, attached to a hand, attached to John, caressing Sherlock's cheek, his lips, which opened easily under that gentle touch. There was a finger, spider-softly pushing into that mouth, against that lower lip. There was a flicker of a wet tongue. There was John Watson, mesmerised and barely breathing, sitting on Sherlock Holmes' hips, on their living room floor, caught and sentenced in a heartbeat.

There was a spell that broke.

The drugs.

He tore himself away, back to all fours on the floor, finally remembering the context of the situation. The damn drugs. Was Sherlock all right? Was he taking advantage of his friend? What kind of doctor was he, addled by hormones when his patient was potentially in danger? He wanted to go back, get closer, get his fingers on that pulse point, but he didn't trust himself enough to move. So he stayed there, gulping for air on the floor, miserable and angry at himself.

The sudden movement seemed to ease Sherlock out of his trance. His eyes gained back the lost focus, his mouth snapped shut, his muscles tensed. The look he gave John was one of bewilderment.

“Sir?”

Right. Not just the drugs, but the memory loss as well. How had he forgotten the memory loss? What did this look like from Sherlock's point of view, a random stranger being first overly familiar and then basically jumping him out of the blue? John should be happy Mycroft hadn't sent somebody to shoot him by now. He sighed deeply, rose up and offered his hand to his battered friend.

“Okay, back to the sofa with you. I'm sorry. I'll explain anything you want, but let's get you off the floor first.”

Sherlock studied his arm for a moment before accepting it and letting John drag him up. John let go as soon as Sherlock was standing and took a couple of steps back, gesturing at the sofa. The detective limped there while John headed towards the kitchen. This called for tea, whatever it was that this was.

'This' turned out to be one hell of a talk.

–

“Deduce me all you want,” John sighed two hours later, “but I'm still telling the truth.”

Sherlock had his hands clasped together under his chin in his traditional thinking pose. His sharp eyes were drilling holes into John's head and his phone beeped every ten seconds. Texts from Mycroft, every single one of them, explaining John's yesterday. There was a dossier, somewhere, filled to the brim with one J. H. Watson, and he was sure it'd soon find its way into 221B. Until then, there were the texts. Sherlock had yet to read any of them. He wouldn't take ready truths from his brother, but wanted rather to come up with his own conclusions.

The grey eyes flickered around his face, his clasped hands, his hurt shoulder.

“- -however improbable- -” the detective murmured to himself. Then: “Tell me about the night in the warehouse again.”

“We've already gone through that twice!” _Beep_ went the phone.

“Just do it. You're omitting something.”

John closed his eyes and sighed. Sherlock hadn't thrown him out yet. Things could be worse.

“I entered close to midnight. You had been gone for two weeks by then. Mrs Hudson was beside herself with worry. I found you, the first time around, leaning against a shipping crate. You were quite out of it by then. I asked you if you could stand up. You told me you were being watched. Mr Broad Shoulders showed up and threatened to shoot at you, _again_. You never did tell me whether he really shot at you in the first place- -” Here he had to stop the recital, raise his head, ask the question with his eyes. Sherlock, of course, waved at him imperially to continue. The phone beeped again.

“- -right. So I dropped my gun, and _really_ , Sherlock, you're never going undercover again.” 

“Just get on with it, John.”

And that at least was a mercy. Quite soon after they had started talking Sherlock had started addressing him with his name. John would take any small victories as they came, and be happy about them.

“Okay, so I dropped the gun, and he kicked it away and told me to sit next to you. I tried to call Mycroft, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. Anyway, he was an idiot for not checking my pockets.”

Sherlock snorted. The phone beeped twice.

“The next thing I know, he confessed to their part in the drug ring and threatened to shoot you.”

Speaking about it still raised his pulse. The first time they talked about this had been terrible, and Sherlock hadn't helped it any with his cold questions and aloof manners. It didn't seem to matter that they were discussing his life, he couldn't care less. Even now he just sighed irritably and urged John on.

“But then the lights went out, and I heard shooting, and I swear I heard you shouting, and then I was back at the door.” He raised his hands to the air fretfully. “I know it doesn't make any sense! But it still happened!” _Beep, beep, beep._

Sherlock leaned forward.

“Think carefully,” he instructed, “did you do anything, anything at all, between speaking with him and finding yourself at the door?”

John stared. The phone vibrated close to the edge of the table.

“Well, I tried to move you when he raised his gun. You were drugged up to your eyeballs! I had to do something!”

“Anything else? Did you even say something?”

“No! At least I can't remember saying anything.”

_Please, God, let him live._

He blushed red. “Although,” he started, but didn't quite know how to explain.

“What?” _Beep_ , and the phone dropped to the floor. Neither of them made any move to retrieve it.

“I did - think about something.”

“And what did you think about, John?” asked Sherlock, patience personified, eyes glaring.

John lowered his gaze. He felt ridiculous.

“You see, I'm not a religious person,” he started, uncomfortably, “but there are moments when you're ready to accept any help you can get. Like Afghanistan.”

“What did you _do_ , John?”

“You asked me once what I would say if I was being murdered. Turns out it would be the same thing when it was you.”

“Which is - ?” 

He couldn't really avoid it any longer.

“I begged for your life,” he finally answered and raised his eyes to meet his friend's gaze. But Sherlock, the utmost stinker, still looked dissatisfied.

“The exact words, John.”

“I assure you, they had nothing to do with hounds.”

“John!”

“All right, all right, let me think.” He closed his eyes again, recalled the memory as well as he could. The cold, uneven floor, Sherlock's prone form, the faint light glinting on the gun. The terror rose again. The words came back easily, without probing.

“Please, God, let him live. Let me save him. Let me save Sherlock.” He recited to the darkness. It was easier, being emotional, when he couldn't see his friend. Still, he cringed with the embarrassment of it.

“And you're sure you didn't say this aloud?” There was some softness, some feeling in Sherlock's voice now. John opened his eyes again and shook his head. His friend was staring at him intently.

“No, I'm sure.” It came out sounding more defeated than he had expected.

Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, his lips curling into a small almost-smile.

“Remarkable,” he sighed. Then he raised his hand, palm up, towards John.

“Phone, please.”

Swallowing the last of his dignity, John bent down and handed Sherlock his phone. The detective manufactured a text without once looking at the little machine and pressed send with a flourish.

“My theory is better than yours, Mycroft,” he muttered.

“You haven't read any of his texts,” John pointed out, “how can you be so sure?”

A snort. “I know him. Mycroft thinks as a politician. For him, the world consists of threats and advantages. Yesterday, he eliminated the possibility you could be a threat – he'd never have let you back here if he thought you'd harm me. So, you must offer him something, some previously unknown asset. It's easy enough to deduce what that might be.”

A silence. John waited a moment, but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming.

“It's not easy for me.”

“Your presence, John! You were correct enough when you described my state back at the warehouse, but it takes more than that to make me stop observing. You didn't react to the Voice at all. That doesn't happen, not when it surprises you, which it clearly did. Mycroft wants you to be a part of his little shadow army. Your previous military service and exceptional mental faculties make you perfect minion material for him.”

John was spared having to come up with an answer by Sherlock raising the phone and reading the first messages. His face went bland, the momentary look of confusion clear before he hid it away.

“He proposes you're dead,” Sherlock complained to the phone. John shrugged.

“Yes, well, he kept on insisting that. I kind of agree with him.”

“What?”

“Well, I did visit my grave.”

Another imperious hand wave. John's grave was clearly not of any concern for Sherlock.

“Not that, that's easily explained. But this is quite something. Your tests all imply that you are D/s -negative.”

John had never heard of such a thing. “I'm a what?”

“If this is true, I must agree with Mycroft. There's simply no way for you to have survived into adulthood.”

In any other moment John would have commented on the rare occasion of the Holmes brothers actually agreeing about something. But now he was baffled, emotionally drained, and he still hadn't got any answers.

“Just please explain it to me, Sherlock,” he moaned tiredly. 

“You are a doctor, John. Do you really not know what this is about?”

“I already had this conversation with your brother. He has probably texted you all about it. No, Sherlock. I really don't know. Now please, explain.”

Sherlock eyed him warily. John stared back, hoping that the confusion would finally stop.

“But you do eat, breathe, sleep and have otherwise normal bodily functions?”

So maybe the confusing part wasn't quite done with yet. John rolled his eyes.

“Obviously.”

“Fascinating!”

“I'm very happy for you, Sherlock. Also getting rather impatient. I've done nothing but answer questions since this whole thing started. I need some answers back now.”

“Fine. Every child is born with a different concentration of genes on the D/s -scale. To not have these genes is lethal. Most suffering from this deficit are stillborn. Others die before the first week is over. There's simply no way to reach adulthood being D/s -negative, which is what you are. Now, Mycroft proposes that you were captured in Afghanistan and experimented on in an effort to create a new super-soldier. Such things have happened before, but the individuals concerned have always ended up dead. You seem to be suffering from delusions, but your general health is excellent. In short, you aren't dying, and yet you remain D/s -negative. I, of course, have a different, better solution.”

And okay, he had insisted on getting some answers, but what Sherlock was saying made no sense. John stood up and walked crankily to the kitchen. This called for tea. Possibly more tea than they had in the flat.

“You are confused.”

“Can you really blame me? You speak of things I've never heard of, Mycroft tries to make me into some kind of Terminator, and you call me delusional. I think I'm holding on quite well, actually. Just, welcome to London. _God_.” 

“Yes, welcome to London, indeed,” came the enigmatic answer. “I do wonder where you came from.”

“I've been here all along.”

“On the contrary, John. I'm aware popular culture references aren't exactly my forte, but I believe the correct way to put this is that you are not in Kansas any more.”


	6. Schrödinger's Sherlock

“You could probably explain that better somehow,” John sighed tiredly, “because the way you're going at it now makes no sense whatsoever to me. Also, please don't use pop culture references. It doesn't suit you.”

Sherlock ignored him in favour of perusing through all the gazillion texts Mycroft had sent him during their conversation. “Hush, John,” he admonished absently, his eyes taking in all the information in the short messages. 

John Watson had learned a thing or two about waiting and patience, first during his years as a student and later in the army, but sharing a flat with Sherlock had raised his ability to sit and seethe silently to new highs. And so he clutched his fists into tight balls and counted, slowly, steadily. By seventy-nine Sherlock was done with the texts, his phone hit the sofa cushions and the man himself stalked to the bookcase. He searched for a moment, and soon a smallish paperback flew through the air into John's lap.

“Hugh Everett, 1957,” Sherlock stated as if that explained anything.

John turned the book around. It had the logo of Princeton university on the upper left corner. The pages were almost pristine but yellowing. The name of the book, 'The Theory of the Universal Wavefunction' was printed with neat, black letters on the cover. It had been read maybe once, so it wasn't one of Sherlock's favourites. John raised questioning eyes towards his flatmate. The book didn't mean anything to him.

“I obviously never paid much attention to it, since it takes a rather fantastical idea and attempts to crowbar it into existing scientific parameters. Of course, the fact that it discusses quantum mechanics makes such a point moot – even the facts become quite fantastical in that environment.” Sherlock stopped and took one look at John's bland face. “Come on, John, you asked me not to utilise popular culture in the explanation. What else was I supposed to do, then, if not this?”

“Just, please, tell me already. I'm tired, Sherlock. Use small words, if you at all can.”

Sherlock grimaced. “I don't want to.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it's stupid!”

“For God's sakes, Sherlock, it can't be stupider than how I'm feeling right at this moment!”

“Fine! Parallel universes.” Sherlock looked sour, borderline disgusted with the topic of the conversation.

“What.”

“You heard me.”

“This is your explanation? Parallel universes?” He felt a giggle coming and ruthlessly stomped it down. Either Sherlock was still high, which John admitted was unlikely after their long talk, or - . He didn't even know or what.

Sherlock nodded sulkily and pointed at the book. “Hugh Everett,” he repeated, as if the man was somehow personally responsible for the mess John was in.

“This is the theory you announced better than Mycroft's?”

“Well, Mycroft's theory boiled down to 'a wizard did it', so yes, this is better,” said Sherlock the scientist haughtily. John took another wide-eyed look at the harmless-looking book. It stayed just a book.

“I don't understand,” he admitted. Sherlock shrugged.

“If this is what I think it is, then it's quantum physics. Not understanding is the expected state of being.”

“And you accept it?”

“There's a reason to why I prefer chemistry,” the detective answered moodily.

“Oh.” A silence, then: “It still doesn't make sense to me. I mean, why? And, what? And, when?”

“I'm also not a philosopher, John,” Sherlock warned him sharply, but one look at the doctor's face made the detective go on. “Although, I do have some theories.”

“Let's hear them,” John suggested weakly.

“Are you familiar with the paradox known as Schrödinger's Cat?”

“The one where the cat's in a box, and it might be either alive or dead, and you won't know before opening the box? We used to joke about it in the school.”

Sherlock nodded and continued speaking. “That's the one, although it's not a joke. Now imagine I'm the cat, and the warehouse was the box. Fredson threatens my life, like the poison in the box threatened the cat. You see this, and you react. You wish you could help me. You hope for a chance to save me.” Here, Sherlock's usually stoic face softened, like he had trouble understanding that someone would care so much about him. John coughed and nodded, still a bit ashamed of his sentimentality.

“Fredson was the drug boss?”

“The leader of that operation, yes.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“The lights go out, and the box is closed. You don't know whether I'm alive or dead. In fact, I might be both, at the same time – no, let me finish.”

John shut his mouth.

“This is the part I'm uncomfortable with,” Sherlock admitted before continuing. “You express your wish. The lights go out. Fredson kills me, but he also doesn't. Universes branch away from each other, and you end up on the wrong branch, the one where I'm still alive. The lights come back on. You're here.”

Sherlock stopped speaking. John stared. The silence grew. Seconds followed each other the way they should always do, until they didn't any more. He made the maths, connected the dots.

The panic and the nausea hit him at the same time, and he bolted to the bathroom, hugged the toilet seat just in time. He retched and cramped and felt awful, felt torn open and hollow. He threw up again, and again, until there wasn't anything left to give. There were tears in his eyes and bile in his mouth and his heart was beating through his throat. Every beat hurt like a revenge, every beat took him further away from Sherlock.

Beat. _Sherlock might be dead._

Beat. _Sherlock is probably dead._

Beat. _Sherlock is dead._

Beat. _I've lost everything._

John sat on the floor of not-his-221B and cried.

–

There's only so much time a man can spend falling apart on the bathroom floor before he starts to feel ridiculous. Eventually John had to go back to the living room, to almost-Sherlock. He was waiting calmly by the fire, grey eyes unreadable, fingers crossed under his chin. John stared. He couldn't help it. He tried to find some tell-tale difference, some hint of strangeness, but there was nothing – nothing on the man himself to give him away, if not his patience, his failure of voicing acidic commentary about John's sentimentality. He gulped, put himself somehow together and tried to find his voice.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his abused throat protesting, “I've been overly familiar, Mr Holmes.”

The almost-Sherlock waved a hand. “Sherlock, please.”

John almost needed the bathroom again. Instead, he walked stiffly to the door and threw his coat on.

“Where are you going?”

“I need some air.”

He had always thought best in motion.

–

It was past midnight when he returned. The book was still on not-his chair, and Sherlock was playing the violin by the window. John didn't recognise the tune, and that broke his heart just a bit more. He stopped by the door and took in the whole of 221B, feeling acutely homesick. The music came to a halt, and Sherlock lowered the violin, his back still to John.

“I asked Mrs Hudson to prepare a bed for you upstairs.”

John drew a breath, then another. Sherlock stood quietly, waiting.

“Thank you.”

–

It was his bed, with his bedclothes, and it was absolutely impossible to sleep in that bed during that night. Sherlock had resumed playing as soon as John had taken to the stairs, and a sweet, slow melody filled the flat. John listened to the nocturnal music and felt empty, desperate. He stared at the familiar ceiling with its familiar spots and hated the unfamiliar tune.

His leg hurt from the long walk, the old pain creeping back unannounced. And wasn't it fitting, too, that life with Sherlock had taken the imagined injury away, and losing that life would bring it back? Because how could he stay here, a stranger living with a recluse, both their moods black and untempered? There was no Jeff Hope, no Mike Stamford to ease his way in this time. Sherlock would surely show him the door by morning, and John couldn't blame him.

The walk had been surreal. He had finally allowed himself to acknowledge all the discrepancies he had encountered since the night in the warehouse. He felt a fool for denying them for what they were, and when he had opened the floodgates, every little detail rushed straight in. The dots formed lines formed shapes, and he had to stop, had to lean against a wall and take deep desperate breaths, drowning in data.

When the claustrophobic feeling had passed he was left remote and detached, floating through the streets of not-his-London, choosing paths randomly at every crossroad until a dull ache forced him back towards Baker Street and other-Sherlock. Which brought him here, to this bed, awake and miserable. He sighed, closed his eyes and tried to let the music soothe him to sleep.

–

The next morning was grey and foggy, and it somehow made John feel better. If he had to be spectacularly screwed, then at least everybody else could suffer the bad weather with him. Sherlock was nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and John let his body take over the familiar motions of preparing one for himself. He had hardly sat down by the table when Sherlock turned his laptop on and raised curious eyes at John.

“Differences and similarities,” he said and opened a text document. It wasn't a question, not at all, more like a statement of a fact. A demand.

“Sherlock,” John answered, exasperated, too close to normalcy to make himself appear unfamiliar, “can't this wait after breakfast?”

“Absolutely not! And anyway, I've already had coffee and you will just stare at yours until it goes cold. And this is more interesting.”

John couldn't help but be comforted by that. Sherlock remained the same as ever, even when the world itself shifted. It was as good a place to start as any. He smiled sadly at his coffee and pointed a finger at the detective. “Okay then. You.”

A cock of a curly head. “What about me?”

“You are you. Just like you are. Like you always were.”

Sherlock looked confused. “But certainly not.”

“What do you mean?”

A long-fingered hand waved over the table, between them. “Clearly you know me, and yet I don't know you. There's a huge difference just there.” A displeased expression flicked on his face. “This doesn't work, you need stricter parameters.” His eyes flicked around the room for a moment, and then he picked up his phone. “This will do,” he muttered and poked at the thing with his characteristic speed and accuracy.

“What's that?”

Sherlock kept his eyes on the phone and scrolled through the texts as he spoke.

“Mycroft sent your file, or the shortened version of it anyway. It will make a passable starting point. Is your name John Hamish Watson?”

“Yes.”

“Parents deceased, one older sister, Harriet, who also lives in London?”

“Yes.”

“Trained at Barts, served in Afghanistan?”

“Yes.”

“Killed in action?”

“What do you think?” If the mug hit the table harder than necessary, well, who would blame him?

“John, you come from an alternate dimension. I don't exactly know what to think about that. Just answer the question.”

How Sherlock could say such a thing with a straight face was beyond John, but he conceded defeat and went on with the little quiz.

“Wounded, but you knew that already. It was one of the first things you deduced about me, after all.”

Sherlock's eyes flicked quickly, competently over him.

“But not on the leg.”

“No, the shoulder.” It was not a topic John wanted to dwell on. Even years later the pain and the terror felt powerful and insistent. Sherlock seemed to note his unhappiness and moved on.

“What happened after you returned home?”

And this was it. This was the gist of everything. He needed to make Sherlock understand this, understand what he meant to John. It was not a conversation he had ever thought he'd be having with the man – with any man.

“Nothing happened to me.” He drew in breath, thought back to those grey days turned into months and hated his own weakness and dependence. But there was no other way than forward, and he hadn't become a captain for nothing. “Nothing happened until I met you. You – were looking for a flatmate. Mike Stamford introduced us. That happened almost two years ago. After that, _God_ , Sherlock, I - ” he choked on his words, unable to continue. How to explain the single best thing that had happened to him? How to make Sherlock understand such an emotion? He was past the point where he'd usually storm out, but that really wasn't an option now.

Sherlock stayed silent, his hands together under his chin. He looked so familiar John wanted to weep.

“Can we please talk about something else?” John finally asked, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“Yes. Let us,” Sherlock breathed and John understood that he wasn't the only one who felt uncomfortable with the emotional subject.

“So – did you need a flatmate? Do you even know Mike?”

Sherlock's mouth curled up. It wasn't quite a smile, but the intent was there.

“I do and I did. He lasted all of twenty minutes. Can't understand what scared him off.”

“Oh, I don't know – could it have been the body parts in the fridge, or the police on your doorstep? Certainly it wasn't your friend the skull or the mucus on the kitchen table,” John answered airily and they both sniggered.

“So, you needed a flatmate, but here you are, alone?”

“Mycroft.” 

“Oh. Of course.”

After that, talking became easier. They talked about Mike, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. They traded anecdotes and memories. 

They talked and talked, and John's coffee grew cold, and it wasn't at all fine, but it was slowly getting bearable.

Only later John came to think that there were two subjects which they didn't breach at all. Sherlock didn't ask about the other Sherlock. And there was no talk about his own cases, not even the most recent one in which John had played a little part. But that night John went back to his own bed, and he actually slept. And the day after Sappho brought over his folder and his identification papers. John Watson was no longer legally deceased and his address remained 221B Baker Street.

–

In some ways everything changed. Two things in particular made John's chest ache. He didn't know what had happened to the other Sherlock – his Sherlock. The new Sherlock theorised that he had either died in the shooting or hadn't needed help at all, and so John was drawn to him, a Sherlock who was indeed desperately in need of aid. His Sherlock's fate kept John awake at night when Afghanistan didn't, and he found it just as difficult a topic to discuss than his other nightmare. It took him some time to realise that he really was in mourning, for a man sharing a flat with him.

The other terrible thing was all the lost common history. They had had two years worth of cases, near-misses and shared breakfasts. John missed them all horribly. There were moments when the weird familiarity of this new life made him forget, just for a second, and he'd comment on something that had happened _before_ , and Sherlock would _look_ at him, and the terrible longing came back with all the force of a tidal wave and he had to go and sit quietly in his room, or escape the flat for a walk in Regent's Park.

And how to mourn a man who was just there, being his usual prickly self? How was it even possible to miss somebody he saw daily? Because in some ways everything had remained the same. Of course, the flat and its furnishing were nearly the same. He even had his pillow and the familiar bedclothes, twice now unearthed from Mrs Hudson's coffers. Quite soon he was again watching crap telly with their landlady and solving crosswords with Sherlock's not so subtle aid. Sherlock himself still played the violin at all hours, forgot to sleep and eat and appropriated the whole fridge to his experiments. 

The detective himself reflected on this weird dichotomy when he, one evening, emerged from his microscope to find John making tea on their kitchen.

“It's quaint,” he mused, “how well you fit here.”

And if John's hand trembled slightly after that comment, well, nobody said a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For sneak peeks and an occassional original thought visit my Tumblr at tunteeton.tumblr.com.
> 
> Feedback is the fuel that keeps me grinning madly and writing fast.


	7. Useless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Calabi-Yau manifolds are a real thing, and they really are rather pretty in a sciencey-way.

“You have to run,” Sherlock begged, “if you run fast enough, you can still save me.” But there was a hole in the middle of his forehead, and the light was bleeding out from his red-rimmed eyes. John ran. He ran, tripped on the pavement, scrambled up only to get lost in a maze of shipping crates, and the time was ticking, it was slipping away from him with every new failure. Sherlock just sat there, quietly, watching with bleeding eyes. Somewhere, someone was sobbing. He ran, and when that wasn't enough he got on hands and knees and tried crawling, because surely four limbs were better than two?

“I'm trying, I'm trying,” he cried, but Sherlock just shook his head, sending crimson rays of light to every direction. He was sitting on a mountain now, and John was a cripple trying to scale its steepest side.

“You're too slow,” Sherlock said from his perch on the top of the pillar on the mountain, the disappointment loud in his whisper, carried by wind to John's distant ears. “Always too slow. Useless to me. You know what happens next.”

“No, please, don't,” he pleaded, but it was too late, he was days too late. Sherlock pushed the needle in, contempt sitting on his shoulders like a winning general, and the bullet exploded. The world was red, and agony.

–

Wednesday morning found John in the public library, surrounded by a dozen hardbacks and cradling a forbidden thermos bottle of coffee in his lap. The books covered a wide range of topics, starting from the mechanics of string theory to the biography of Hugh Everett and even some science fiction novels about time travel and alternate universes. 

He was a firm believer in proactivity at the face of crisis, but even the secretly devoured coffee couldn't help him wade through the gibberish that was advanced quantum physics. The novels proposed some interesting scenarios, but for once he wasn't reading for the plot or the characterisation. Compared to the cold fact of his impossible situation, fiction was useless. And while Everett had had an interesting, if somewhat discouraging scientific life, there was nothing helpful on the pages of his biography either.

He was ready to give up and limp back to Baker Street to spend another day with not-quite-Sherlock when a pretty young librarian walked past with a tray filled with returned books. She spotted the thermos and wrinkled her nose, stopping to glare at him.

“I'm sorry sir, but I have to ask you to put that away,” she said surprisingly politely, her words in direct contrast with the fierce expression directed at him. John offered her a sheepish smile and tucked the bottle under his jacket.

“Just trying to keep my brain awake,” he apologised, gesturing at the pile in front of him. “Not that it's doing me much good.”

Her glare softened and she glanced at the books, taking in their titles with an educated ease.

“Physics, eh? It's quite heavy reading for early morning,” she allowed and gave him a curious look.

“I have a newfound interest in the subject,” he told her, completely sincerely. “I tried the internet first, but that didn't really lead anywhere. I thought that coming here would make this easier, but -,” he stopped, sighing. “There's no making this easy.” 

“You have some pretty advanced texts there,” she pointed out. “Maybe try a primer?”

“That's why I selected this.” John answered, opening the biography again, “His research was the starting point for me.”

“He's old potatoes,” she dismissed, turning around and disappearing between the shelves. John blinked after her and sneaked another sip from the thermos. One more chapter of Calabi-Yau manifolds and then he'd pack his things and give up for today.

The more he had read the more convinced he became that he was well and truly stuck here, that maybe he was researching the wrong thing altogether. Instead of harbouring this useless hope of ever getting back home he should try to find a job, a home of his own, a place where he could brood in peace. Because right now, 221B Baker Street was not that place.

Case in point, this early morning and the real reason he had escaped to the library.

–

 _Sherlock is dead_ , John had mused while the tea water boiled, the most recent nightmare still burning behind his heavy, tired lids.

 _Sherlock is dead, and he's not coming back_ , he had thought and watched the leaves soaking in the hot water.

 _Sherlock is dead, but you are not_ , he had told himself, carrying the mugs and a box of biscuits to the living room, where the other Sherlock alternatively whined and raged at the morning telly.

John Watson didn't cry.

 _This is what you have now_ , he had reminded himself sternly and poked his new flatmate with the little box, _take good care of it._

Preparing breakfast for the two of them was nothing out of the ordinary. What was unusual was Sherlock cutting his tantrum short, glancing at the offered food with an honest bewilderment on his face and then turning to stare at him.

“Yes, it's for you, go on,” John had said, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.

Sherlock had smiled at him, not one of his shamming grimaces but a real, warm smile. He had taken the mug with a care resembling reverence and thanked him. He had proceeded to drink his tea in silence, nibbling at the biscuit thoughtfully.

It's interesting which things end up breaking people.

Because John had found it was impossible to stay in the living room. He had fled back to the kitchen, managed to get his cup back on the table without splashing too much of his tea on the floor and kept on retreating all the way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him with shaking hands.

Sherlock had thanked him.

Sherlock never thanked him for preparing tea. John preparing tea was one of the constants of their life, not much different from the sun setting in the evening or Mycroft being obnoxious. It was below the threshold of being worthy of notice, much less a comment.

As far as Sherlock was concerned, the tea just happened to him. But this Sherlock had taken the time to notice, to acknowledge the effort and to thank him. And all John had been able to think was _This should not be happening. This is wrong._

Because it was at that moment that John had started to accept that he was not going back, that he was stuck here. And he had felt heartbroken, of course, for his Sherlock, for never learning his fate, and also guilty for disappearing from the face of the Earth in that London. But that hadn't been the half of it, because he knew he was being unfair to this new version of his friend. Because these comparisons were never going to end, John would keep on looking at him and expecting to see the other one. He would keep on letting him down and remembering unreal things, things this Sherlock had no way to relate to. His mind would keep on rebelling against his physical reality, surrounded by the all-too-familiar people and environment. 

And if that wasn't enough, the last week had proved beyond doubt that he was capable, and willing, to think of Sherlock as more than a flatmate, even more than a friend.

And, to some extent, Sherlock had reciprocated.

Except that, in John's head, that had been the other Sherlock who had been on the floor with him. The one he knew, the one who knew him.

Irene Adler's words of them being a couple returned with a full force, gutting him once again. If she had been correct about him, what about Sherlock? Had he ever felt anything for John?

Oh _God_ , had he almost cheated on Sherlock with Sherlock? He, who used to be proud of his sense of right and wrong, on whom Sherlock himself relied to tell when things started to get out of hand. This was more than just a Bit not Good, and it was all his own doing. So much for the moral compass, then.

What _was_ his life?

How could he feel guilt for the fate of one man _twice_? What was the _point_ in that?

So he had spent a ridiculous quarter of an hour sitting and shaking on the closed toilet seat, doing his breathing exercises and feeling like the butt of a massive cosmological joke. Then he had washed and shaven his face, emerged from the bathroom to find his cool tea still waiting on the kitchen table, gulped it down without tasting a thing and left. He had probably said something to Sherlock before closing the door after himself, but he'd be damned if he remembered what that was.

Walking had helped. It always seemed to ease his mind, and the morning had been an unusually pretty one. Step by step, breathing became more manageable, his thoughts less clouded. He had not planned on visiting the library, but when he had raised his head and it had been right there, on the other side of the road, he had decided to man up. One more try, and then that would be that. At this point, he had nothing more to lose. After all, there already was a grave with his name on it in this London.

He had crossed the road and climbed the stairs to the old double doors. They were already open, even though the hour was early. He stepped in.

–

The Calabi-Yau manifolds didn't make any more sense on the second time around, and John closed the book with a sigh. Sure they looked pretty, but if he wanted to look at modern art he'd go to Tate. He had even run out of coffee during the latest read-through, and took a moment to just cradle his head on his hands, the thermos rebelliously placed on the top of his pile of useless science.

Of course, the pretty librarian decided to walk past that exact minute.

“It's empty,” John tried, pre-emptively, but she only wrinkled her already-wrinkly nose more.

“If those books are spoiled I need to charge you, sir,” she admonished him.

“They are fine,” John sighed, beaten, “and no good for me anyway. Take a look if you don't believe it.” He gestured at the books, not wanting to have anything more to do with them.

“In fact,” the librarian answered, “I brought you something.” And she placed two more tomes on the table before him, as far away from the bottle as possible. John gave them a long, distrustful look. He didn't think he was up to more of the same. The morning was already ruined as it was.

“The ones you chose were fairly advanced,” she explained, “and you seemed to be struggling with them. I won't say these are easy, but they do include extensive glossaries and summarise the themes nicely. Maybe try these first?”

John gave her a surprised look. She smiled encouragingly, and was really quite pretty. Being protective of books was probably not a bad trait if you happened to be a librarian. He offered her a lopsided smile.

“Thanks, but I think I'm done in for the morning,” he said, “burned myself out with those other ones.”

“Why don't you loan them?”

Because he wasn't a real person, not in this universe. But that probably wasn't considered a polite answer.

“I don't think I have -,” he started, going through his wallet.

“In fact I do,” he finished, blinking at the new, shiny card. It had his name on it. It was, without a doubt, his.

Sometimes, Mycroft was scarily thorough.

“That's settled, then,” she said sunnily and showed him to the loans desk. 

–

He was back at Baker Street by midday, planning ways to let Sherlock down gently. It felt weird, especially since he wasn't sure at all if Sherlock actually wanted a relationship, but he knew he wasn't mentally ready for one. It was probably time for some more explanations, to breach those subjects they both had been unwilling to tackle earlier. John and the other Sherlock, their shared history.

It had to be painful for this Sherlock as well. During the time John had been here, not a single person had visited, and only Mycroft had called. Sherlock seemed to have no more friends than his namesake in the other London did. Then suddenly John had appeared and settled in, unknown yet familiar, and Sherlock had just accepted that. _Then_ it turned out that John was only there because he had thought Sherlock was somebody else. That had to hurt, had to make him question John's motives for staying.

It was not a talk he was looking forward to.

So of course, when he had finally felt brave enough to enter 221 Baker Street, it turned out that Sherlock wasn't in. Mrs Hudson told him cheerfully that the nice detective inspector had dropped by and soon after Sherlock had left, and would John like to have some biscuits with his tea? That new lifestyle programme was just starting, and she'd love to have some company watching it. 

Which was how John ended up on her sofa, with a delicate hand-painted cup of sugary tea and a tray of biscuits on the table, watching people chop carrots and talk about breast pumps. He had sent Sherlock a message straight away, asking if he needed help, but there had been no answer. Why would there be? This Sherlock was used to working alone. He hadn't needed an assistant, or a blogger, or a sharpshooter for that matter.

All John was good for now was keeping company to Mrs Hudson.

“I'm happy you showed up,” she said when the programme was, thankfully, over. “You have calmed him down so much.”

“Oh really?” John asked, brightening up somewhat. It was quite pathetic, how happy he was to have any effect at all on Sherlock. “What was he like, before?”

“You know,” Mrs Hudson answered, shaking her head, “he used to be so restless. And with all those people running here, it was distasteful. I'm happy you put a stop to that.”

That was surprising.

“What people?” No one had visited at all when he had been around. Did this Sherlock have a social life after all? Why had he stopped inviting his friends over? Why did Mrs Hudson think John had anything to do with that?

“Oh you know,” Mrs Hudson giggled nervously, and then shut her mouth. John waited a moment, but soon it became clear that she wasn't willing to say anything more on the subject. Apparently, she hadn't liked Sherlock's friends all that much.

It was something for him to think about. After all, she had taken to him immediately.

Soon after, he retired upstairs with the books, planning to take a look at those much-lauded glossaries. He opened the first one randomly, to a page displaying crudely drawn trousers for some reason, when a note peeked from between the thin pages.

It was hand-written with neat, practised letters. He read it over quickly, ready to bin it as soon as he was done with it.

 **Misplaced? Looking for your place? Longing for something lost?**

He blinked at it. It summed his feelings so well, but before he had time to decide what to do about it, the front door opened and Lestrade's exasperated voice carried up to his ears.

“You know I can't keep protecting you. You want to work these cases, you keep your mouth in check.”

There was a mumbled answer, one he couldn't quite hear. Soon after, Mrs Hudson's chirping joined the two voices.

Sherlock had come back home.

He placed the note over the rather childish picture of the trousers and slammed the book shut. He could moan over his fate later, this was more interesting. Four long strides took him to the open door.

“What's going on?”

All three people downstairs turned to look at him. Lestrade was the same as always after spending some time with Sherlock, irritated and impatient. Sherlock himself was dishevelled, a sight so unusual that John found himself downstairs without another conscious thought.

“What happened?” He demanded. “You look like you were in a fight. Was he in a fight?” The last question was addressed to Lestrade, who gaped at him more than a little surprised.

“Who the hell are you?” Lestrade exclaimed, and John could have kicked himself for being careless if he wasn't so busy trying to figure out if Sherlock was actually hurt. His clothes were out of place but not actually torn, his hair wild and his expression thunderous. If there had been a fight, Sherlock had given as well as he got.

“He's my doctor,” Sherlock said at the same time as John answered, “I'm his doctor.”

“All right, understood.” Lestrade mumbled, overthrown by the stereo answer. “Yes, he was, but it's nothing growing some common sense wouldn't cure.”

Satisfied Sherlock wasn't bleeding or concussed again, John chuckled at that. Sherlock looked at him, frustration clear on his face.

“He was destroying the evidence with his profound stupidity and inability to observe what's important,” he argued, and John had a fair idea who was being discussed.

“He was following the standard procedure.” Lestrade countered swiftly. “This was the last time I can save your arse, Sherlock. Next time, they will take this to my superiors. There are limits, and you went over them, again. If you want to come tomorrow, you will wear the patches.”

Sherlock visibly blanched at that. There was some sympathy in Lestrade's voice as he continued.

“I understand your point, and trust me, I don't like it anymore than you do, but there's honestly nothing I can do about that. I already tried talking to the superintendent, but he threatened to sack me if today repeats. If you can't control it, they will do it for you. It's more than just this one case. They are worried about the reliability of the whole division in the public's eye.” 

John had no idea what was being discussed, but he didn't miss how Sherlock straightened his back and tightened his shoulders. It was his fighting stance, designed even more to shield him than to intimidate the opposition. Whatever this was about, there was no doubt Sherlock had messed up, and he knew it without Lestrade telling him so.

“I see,” he replied, turned around and climbed the stairs to 221B. Mrs Hudson murmured something to herself and retreated to her own apartment. Lestrade gave John a sober look.

“You look after him now,” he said before exiting to the street, pushing the door closed behind him. John stood a moment alone in the hallway, trying to understand what had just happened, before following Sherlock upstairs.

The detective was sitting on his chair, coat still on, cuddling his knees against his chest, his expression severe and distant. A discarded box of what seemed to be nicotine patches lay on a table next to him.

It was then that John understood that even if this Sherlock didn't need a blogger or a flatmate, he sure as hell was in a desperate need of an ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are cherished, locked into little bottles and kept in the basement ever and ever. Thanks for everyone who takes the time to leave one!


	8. Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning: from now on, the tagged non-con drug use starts to become a more explicit part of the story. If that's likely to give you the creeps, please don't read further or contact me through my Tumblr (tunteeton.tumblr.com) and I'll give you a summary of the chapter.

“Before you say anything,” Sherlock interrupted his thoughts, “no, I don't want to talk about it.” He was wielding his sulkiest tone and John half expected him to turn around and perch on the chair backwards just to be more reticent. Too bad he didn't know John had seen all this many times before and had a fair bit of experience in handling his moods.

“That's fine,” John answered mildly, “I shall just sit here and think aloud then. I'd say you backed Greg into quite the corner there. I haven't often seen him that distressed, and I've known the guy for some time now.”

That got the reaction he had been hoping for. Sherlock gave him a quick, curious look.

“Who's Greg?”

It was infinitely astounding which bits of knowledge Sherlock deemed irrelevant enough to delete. Trust him to remember an obscure historical figure like Hugh Everett but fail to take note of his closest contact in the Met.

“That would be the nice detective inspector you're hell bent on giving a cardiac arrest to one of these days,” John said, feigning disinterest. His prey took the bait.

“Lestrade? You know him?”

“I know _you_ , you idiot,” he shot back. “And I take it that today you waltzed into an unsuspecting crime scene, took Anderson's head off for doing his job and caused yet another incident with Lestrade's higher-ups. I've seen it all before. So, fess up, which one was it this time? Did the monkey spend another night with Donovan, or did his stupid face just make it impossible for you to think?”

He didn't often have the pleasure of rendering Sherlock speechless. The incongruous look of the detective, in his full suit and Belstaff coat, sputtering at him at a loss, felt all the more precious because of that.

“I'll never get used to that. You actually know them all?” Sherlock asked weakly after a moment of mutual glaring.

“I'm your friend,” John said promptly. “It was my job to keep you out of this kind of trouble. I'd like to have that job back. So help me a bit here, Sherlock. Tell me what happened.”

That made him blush for some reason, but after a moment he unfolded himself from the chair and stalked across the room to his laptop, powering it up.

“It's a serial killer,” he said, the familiar excitement muted but still present. “This was the third victim, a teenager from Kent. He displayed the same trauma than the two others, and it seems the killer is accelerating. Fourteen days between the first two murders, but only eight this time. Anderson got to the victim first. The idiot didn't watch his steps. There was something on the ground, but it was too mushed to be saved by the time I got there. He insists it was just some grass. _Grass_ , John, magically growing through the asphalt of a lorry station!”

“So you yelled at him,” John hazarded, but sure of the answer.

“In national television,” Sherlock answered unhappily and shoved the laptop at him. He had opened YouTube to a channel called Live News (But Not For Long). On the foreground Lestrade was being interviewed, but behind his back, apparently unnoticed by the news anchor and the detective inspector both, Anderson in his blue suit was standing nose to nose with Sherlock. His face was flushed red and his fists were clenched. He had a dangerous glint to his eye as Sherlock gestured at the ground and talked spiritedly, the sneer clear on his face even from the distance. The feed cut off just as Anderson took a threatening step to Sherlock's personal space and gripped the collar of his coat. John whistled.

“I take it you want to read the comments.” Sherlock said quietly, defeat in his voice.

“No, I don't think that's necessary,” John answered. “I can imagine them well enough. The superintendent apparently wasn't pleased.”

“He shouted at Lestrade for an hour straight. From now on, I'm banned from the Yard and the crime scenes unless my behaviour is guaranteed to be stellar.” The detective sighed and flicked his eyes over the patches sitting on the table. 

“And that only because Lestrade begged him for it,” he added after that little, unhappy pause. “It doesn't matter that I could solve their troubles in half of the time they need themselves. The superintendent is more concerned with the public image of the Metropolitan Police. Apparently, 'fighting in a live interview undermines the public's trust in the police's capability of solving crimes',” he said, wiggling his fingers but no humour in his tone. He sighed again, folding his hands into his lap. The sight of him so subdued tied a knot in John's stomach.

“Lestrade mentioned patches,” he offered, and Sherlock's face clouded even more. Defeat morphed into distaste and he shot a dark look at the little box on the table.

“I didn't quite understand how covering yourself in nicotine would help,” John tried after a moment of silence. It was clear this wasn't a topic Sherlock felt comfortable discussing.

“Those aren't nicotine patches,” Sherlock snorted and tossed the box at him. He caught it easily and turned it around in his hands. It was a white box with light blue stripes, printed with a logo of a medical company and the commercial name of the drug.

“Bliss,” John read aloud. That name sounded familiar. He frowned.

“This was what they gave you,” he realised, “down in the warehouse. The drug gang. You later said it was intravenous Bliss. This same stuff.”

“It's a very common date drug,” Sherlock shrugged.

“I don't understand,” John said, flabbergasted. “Why would Lestrade want to drug you?”

“You say you're a medical doctor,” Sherlock countered, “figure it out.” With that, he marched to his bedroom, slamming the door shut as he went. Soon after, the flat was filled with sounds of a heinously tortured violin. John sighed and set to work on his laptop.

–

An hour later he was very angry and on phone with Mycroft. Sherlock hadn't stopped tormenting his poor, long suffering violin, and John had had to vacate to Green Park. This was not a discussion he was willing to have anywhere near eavesdroppers, and the park was the first place he had found where he could speak in a relative privacy. Well, insofar as one could use the words 'privacy' and 'Mycroft Holmes' in the same sentence anyway. He was chillingly aware of at least three cameras tracking his movements from Baker Street to the park. How the creep managed to communicate pure contempt through CCTV was incomprehensible to him, but somehow the slow, mechanical turns of the cameras were oozing disappointment at him.

Or maybe it was his own, tumultuous mind which made him feel that way.

“You left my brother rather moody,” Mycroft stated as a greeting. His displeasure was as loud as it was unvocalised.

So maybe it wasn't just him.

“He's got all the reasons in the world to be moody,” John spat. “Do you know what the superintendent demands of him?”

“I've seen the video, yes,” Mycroft answered, and for a brief moment John was unsure whether he meant the YouTube clip or the actual shouting match between Lestrade and his boss. Fortunately, Mycroft soon dispelled his 1984-esque fears.

“It seems Sherlock has once again been too clever for the police force,” he continued. “I know the superintendent well. His reaction is easy to infer. Tell me, doctor Watson, how many patches is it this time?”

“This time?” John repeated. “ _This_ time? Are you telling me this has happened before?”

“You claim to know my brother, doctor Watson. If that is correct, you should know how restrained he usually is when it comes to spoiling the crime scenes.”

Images of Sherlock, vicious and cruel, flooded his mind. To have the superintendent witness that, or even one of his less motivated attacks against Anderson's mental faculties, could prove disastrous to his detecting career.

“Oh lord,” John moaned. “With the superintendent this furious, it's a wonder Lestrade gets him in at all.”

“A wonder indeed,” came the dry answer.

“It's _your_ doing,” he realised. “You keep pulling the strings to get him in. Why don't you do anything about those infernal patches, then?”

“I occupy only a small, insignificant part in the British government,” Mycroft said like a clockwork. John rolled his eyes at the nearest camera. “But it so happens that the superintendent owns me some favours. Not that sizeable favours, mind you. And anyway, I don't see a problem with the patches. They are no different from, say, an asthma medication. As a medical doctor, surely you agree with me on that.”

“No different -,” John started, stunned. “ _Asthma_ medication? Surely you don't compare this mindfuckery to _that_?”

“I can't see why not,” Mycroft said, indifference battling with distaste in his statement. “Both have to do with – bodily functions.”

If it had been possible to travel via phone to strangulate someone, the elder Holmes would have found himself short of air just about then. John fumed and paced in the park, anger finding no suitable outlet apart from the phone against his ear.

“It's exploitation, that's what it is,” he snarled from between clenched teeth. “I won't allow it.”

“That's not for you to decide,” came the bland answer. “I allow you near my brother because you seem to stabilise him. Do not overstep your boundaries, doctor Watson. That would be highly inadvisable of you.”

“I'll show you inadvis -,” John blurted, but the line went dead in the middle of the word. To really drill the point home, even the camera turned away from him.

No help from that direction, then.

_Damn emotionless cold bastard, Mycroft bloody Holmes. Damn him to Hell._

He stared at the phone. Only one venue left, then. He dialled Greg's number. Greg was a good guy. He wouldn't let them down like this.

“Are there any other options?” He asked as soon as the line connected.

Lestrade told him.

“Oh buggerfuck!”

Lestrade elaborated.

The phone made a rewarding sound when it smashed against the metal railing of an unsuspecting bench.

Damn it _all_ to Hell.

No wonder Sherlock had acted messed up in the head earlier. No wonder at all.

–

It was the second time during the same day that John approached Baker Street planning to have a talk with Sherlock. And it was the second time Sherlock had made himself scarce during his absence. John's already black mood dropped even lower. He stood in the middle of the living room and swore profusely.

Calling Sherlock wasn't an option. His phone lay abandoned in the park, and it was probably broken as well after he had stomped on it for good measure. It had been a gift from Mycroft, after all. Nothing trustworthy ever came from that direction. He was not in the mood to hover around Mrs Hudson speaking pleasantries in exchange for her land line. John was stuck.

Sherlock could probably take one look at the room and deduce John's whereabouts in a second. All John got out of it was that it missed the most important bit, the detective himself. The box of patches was also gone. If Sherlock returned wearing the infernal things, John wouldn't be able to control himself. He'd either scream, or weep. Maybe both at the same time. Then, he'd find a gun, any gun, and march to the Met, the consequences be damned.

He was used to dealing with a Sherlock who had to fight the call of his past drug use. He hadn't ever even imagined having to deal with a Sherlock onto whom a drug habit was forcefully thrust. The stuff, Bliss – and what a name that was – was absolutely wretched. It affected the central nervous system, the behaviour and the perceptions of the user and to top it up, it was extremely addictive as well. That it was considered a legitimate medical drug was beyond him. That Mycroft approved of Sherlock taking it was incomprehensible.

He paced around like a wild beast in a cage, unable to calm down for more than a couple of minutes at a time, and it was only when the door was opened downstairs that he remembered the note he had found in the morning, the one that seemed to be addressed, impossibly, to him. The one that could maybe, possibly, offer him a way home.

Fuck that note. John had a mission now, and he wasn't going to abandon Sherlock alone with all these psychos. He was exactly where he wanted to be, at Sherlock's side, fighting against whatever it was that needed to be fought.

And this time, it was personal.

There were steps on the stairs, and John turned to greet his best and only friend, to swear his allegiance.

“Sherlock, I -,” he got out before the truth registered.

Sherlock wasn't alone. He was accompanied by a tall, dark man of vaguely Mediterranean features. He had his arm on Sherlock's shoulder, his palm resting confidently against the detective's pale, long neck. His lips were red and kiss-swollen.

Sherlock's face was flushed, his eyes gleaming and alive. He was looking at the other man, an easy smile on his face.

John couldn't see any shamming on that smile. It was the same smile he had often seen directed at himself, in another Baker Street, another London. Words dried in his throat.

Both of the newcomers turned to look at him, both of them wore similar expressions of confusion on their faces. Sherlock recovered first.

“Victor,” he said, “this is John Watson, the man I told you about. John, this is Victor Trevor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the comments will have a place of honour in my midsummer bonfire (yes, in March) and will be burned with all the correct ceremonies come June. This is a great and a wonderful thing. Truly.


	9. Revelations

Victor was tall, with long legs, narrow hips, muscular arms and an easy smile. He radiated success and self-confidence, and he was touching Sherlock like it wasn't anything out of ordinary. They were standing side by side, and the sight of them together was beautiful, made sense in a way John recognised as aesthetically pleasing. He wanted to kick Victor down the stairs and out of the flat, lock the door and swallow the key. He wanted to tread on some fingers while he was at it.

He schooled his face into neutral pleasantry and took the offered hand. The handshake was brief, firm and warm. Of course it was warm. The man had been holding his hand against Sherlock's skin. He smelled of expensive cologne and good hygiene. There wasn't a single grey hair in his black hair, not one rebellious pore on his skin. John had never hated anybody as much as he hated him at that moment.

Go to Hell, Victor Trevor.

“Mr Trevor,” he said, and it came out in his captain voice, the one he used very seldom these days. Next to Victor, Sherlock straightened his back, raised his chin, gave him a speculative look. John very carefully didn't even glance at him, kept his eyes on the opposition.

“The lauded doctor Watson,” Victor answered, mouth full of white, straight teeth. There were dimples on his cheeks when he smiled. Naturally there were. “Sherlock has spoken very highly of you. Haven't you, Sherlock?”

“Yes, Victor,” Sherlock said at once, and John couldn't remember a single moment when the detective would have answered him as eagerly, as devoutly as that. And still Victor was touching him, rolling his fingertips over the sleeve of his suit jacket.

Stampeding on those fingers wouldn't be enough. He'd have to break some of them. Every single one that had ever touched Sherlock.

What the _fuck_ was he thinking?

He didn't deem himself a jealous man. He'd had many partners with close friends and never felt a stab of possessiveness. He'd even encouraged those friendships, even the one that later morphed into something more. But there was no denying this feeling, this need to position himself between Sherlock and Victor, to affirm his place in Sherlock's life. It was the damn Woman all over again.

_Get a grip, Watson._

“Very nice to meet you,” John said and forced his taut muscles to relax. He schooled his features into something he hoped resembled a smile, even when his world rearranged itself once again. It was always Sherlock. Every time this happened, it was about Sherlock. Oh, shit.

“Well, would you look at the time,” Victor said, his eyes intent on John's face, and nowhere near a clock. John was smiling, wasn't he? He didn't feel like he were grimacing. It had to be a smile. “Time for me to go. Good night, Sherlock, doctor Watson. Call me if you need me again. Any time you need me.”

With that, he turned around and disappeared down the stairs. There was no kiss goodbye, no wink for Sherlock from him. They were left standing, facing each other, John trying to decipher the meaning behind Victor's words and behaviour, Sherlock studying his features. They didn't move until the front door clicked closed after the man.

“That was very educational,” Sherlock told him, and John had to risk a glance at his face. He looked amused, even fascinated. So much for keeping this a secret, then.

“Was it, now?” He asked, defeated.

“Very,” Sherlock repeated, stepped past him and beelined for the kitchen. “Tea?”

“You'd make tea?” John turned around and followed him, eyes huge.

“You look like you could use some right now,” Sherlock shrugged and tore through the cabinets in his quest for the sugar. Honestly, how the man had survived alone before he came along was a mystery for the ages.

“What if I said I didn't want to talk about it?” He asked and slumped into a waiting chair. He wanted to bury his face into his arms, but he had more self-respect than that. 

“I'd tell you that I'd just deduce aloud then,” the detective parroted his own words back to him, victoriously gesturing with the newly-discovered sugar. John groaned.

“I didn't know, I swear I didn't,” he tried, but it sounded piteous even to his own ears. Sherlock's unimpressed snort was an answer in itself.

“Then you're an idiot,” he declared, flipping the electronic kettle on. “I've had my suspicions since the first night.”

“You were unconscious for most of the first night,” John had to point out.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, “and I still observed more than you did. You didn't even figure out you'd skipped universes. For _shame_ , John.”

If he was asked, groaning could be announced a formal language by now. This time he didn't fight the face-desk, but just let it happen. Once again, for a second in his confusion, he had forgotten. It all came back now, with fervour.

“Oh, God.”

“I'm flattered, but no,” Sherlock quipped and placed a mug to the table next to his head.

“Shut it, Sherlock,” John said wearily, “it's getting a bit too much now. Go away, let me suffer in peace.”

“No,” answered Sherlock airily, and something inside John, something that had been strung impossibly tight, tighter than even in Afghanistan, broke free. The rage came from nowhere.

“For fuck's sake!” He shouted, slamming his fist against the table. “I just realised I've lost the person I love, for all eternity, and I've got no hope of ever getting him back. I realised I'm gay, after a lifetime of heterosexuality, for _you_ , Sherlock Holmes. And you're going out with this disgusting Victor guy, who's perfect, and quite clearly cares for you, and would you stop staring at me and _smiling, fuck_ , Sherlock, it's nothing to laugh about you insensitive berk I came back to _help you_ and I _miss him so freaking much_.” The outburst left him panting and light-headed and wondering what on earth he just let out of his mouth. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked completely unimpressed.

“The correct term is actually bisexual,” he told him, and John couldn't help it. He started laughing, because it was either that or shatter into a million sharp pieces right here in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, and he could never do that. He laughed an eternity, laughed until he stopped crying, and then he took the mug Sherlock kept thrusting towards him and swallowed the lukewarm tea meekly. It was very, very sweet.

“Sugar,” he deduced aloud, peering at the drink. Sherlock hummed before leaning across the table, arms and elbows flat on its surface.

“I'm not going out with Victor.”

“Yes you are,” John mumbled, thoughts far away.

“I'm not. Not like that. We have an – understanding.”

“An understanding,” John repeated, dragging his eyes up from the now empty mug. He couldn't quite remember drinking it, but evidence suggested he had. There was sweetness on his tongue and an ache inside his skull. He yawned, suddenly tired. 

“Yes. I assisted him with a family matter some years ago and now he helps me occasionally when I need it.” Sherlock sounded dismissive, rational as ever, but John remembered the easy compliance, the burning eyes, the kiss-swollen lips. He toasted with the empty mug. Sherlock snapped it out of his lax fingers.

“I see,” he said, fatigued. “I'm very happy for you. Now, if you don't mind, I have to get some sleep.”

Two narrow wrists on his shoulders pushed him back to the chair. He blinked at the table, too weary to lift his lids any higher. Had it always been that peculiar colour, stripey yellowish brown? He supposed it had. Funny, the things you didn't pay attention to. Like Sherlock, who was standing up now, standing behind his back, hands warm and firm on his shoulders.

“I do mind,” Sherlock said, baritone voice very close to his left ear. “Firstly, if you go to sleep now, you're bound to have nightmares. Secondly, this conversation is far from over. You said you came back to help me. Explain.”

“Tired,” he complained. “Did you drug me, again? That's not on, Sherlock. Oh wait, it wasn't you, the first time. Never mind then.”

The gentle kneading of those long fingers ceased. When Sherlock spoke, there was quiet menace in his voice. “I'd never drug you, John. It's the shock of your revelation affecting you.”

“He did,” John pointed out, helpfully. “And you never apologised, either. That's nice, don't stop.”

After a moment, the rhythmic movement of the fingers continued.

“I'm apologising now, John. He shouldn't have.”

“Oh don't worry,” John dismissed, “it wasn't in the sugar anyway. Put him into a right strop, that did. Never seen you that agitated. Not even with Moriarty.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock commented, kneading softly into the tight knot of muscles on the base of his neck. “Who's Moriarty?”

“Don't you worry about him at all,” John yawned again and let his lids fall shut. “If he shows up here, I'll put a bullet between his eyes before he knows what's happening. Just like with the cabbie. Get me a gun, Sherlock. I need a gun.”

The fingers stopped once more and John let out a demanding noise, pushing against them. The contact was nice, but pressure was better. He wanted the pressure back.

“You've killed for him?”

“And I'd do it again,” he confirmed, nudging more insistently and wondering if he could get away with purring. “In a heartbeat.”

–

He woke up without remembering having fallen asleep. His throat felt dry and tender, but at least the headache was gone. He blinked at the ceiling a couple times before managing to place himself. The living room. He was laying on the sofa. A blanket was draped over him. Not his own, either. It was silky soft and smelled just like - -

“Sh – Sherlock?” He tried calling, but it came out more a croak than a word. The living room was dark, but an electronic light shone from the kitchen. The detective was nowhere to be seen.

“On the table.”

He turned his head, and there was a pillow under it. A pillow! A water glass threw its shadow over the table, and he picked it up with care. A terrible suspicion started to fill his mind.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” He couldn't quite place the voice, but Sherlock wasn't speaking loudly. He was somewhere close by. He had been watching John sleep. What the hell should he think about that?

Well, he had a more pressing matter to attend to.

“Did you _carry_ me here?” He didn't bother hiding the accusation in his voice. He was a soldier. Soldiers weren't carried around unless they were wounded. He should know. He had experience. “You did, didn't you?”

“Actually,” said the shadow of Sherlock, rising from his chair, “I didn't. You protested when I tried to. Loudly.”

“I was sleeping,” John pointed out, scepticism battling with relief in his head. Not carried, thank god. Never again.

“That didn't seem to stop you,” Sherlock chuckled. “But you were amenable to suggestions. Cranky, but amenable.” He took three confident strides across the room and stepped onto the low table in a very familiar way. John found that he had to crank his neck backwards to see him, hovering above him, but then Sherlock flopped down and sat on the table with his knees crossed. He had an intent look on his face as he leaned forward, and John scrambled into a sitting position, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden.

“You fell asleep on me,” Sherlock accused. “That's rude. We were in a middle of a discussion.” His eyes narrowed and gained a predatory gleam. “A serial killer, John, and three victims already! The Met are a bunch of idiots. They are slow, always too slow. I'm going to take a look at the body in the morning.”

“But the superintendent won't let you anywhere near it,” John pointed out. “And using those bloody patches is out of question. I spoke with Lestrade earlier today. He told me there's no other way.” _No other way you would accept, anyway_ , he added silently.

Sherlock didn't seem very concerned, however. He gave John a little, tight smile and rolled his sleeve up.

Two round patches, neatly placed close to the bend of his elbow. Off-white and looking quite innocent, they still managed to knock John's breath out. No. This was so much no. Sherlock couldn't do this. It was wrong, and it was despicable, and it was utterly unacceptable. Battle calmness spread over him. It was the same feeling he'd often had in Afghanistan, and then later in London, waiting in ambush for one criminal or another. It was the same feeling which allowed him to shoot straight and sure, which had kept them both alive through many hazardous encounters. He raised his eyes, took a long, level look at Sherlock.

“No.”

The detective returned his gaze, unflinching. “What are you going to do about it?”

What were secrets around this man? He'd figured out John had loved the other one probably before John himself had understood that. He could speak freely now. He could tell him. He could explain.

“Do you have danger nights, Sherlock? Those nights when your skin is crawling and you starve for something more. Do you have those nights? Because he did, when there hadn't been any cases for a while, or when he was agitated by something. He had these terrible black moods. He'd smoke, then, but there was always a hunger for more. He used to do drugs, you know. A lot of drugs. But he never did when I lived with him. Want to know why?” There was steel in his voice, the captain resurfacing once again, and Sherlock sat on the table like a statue, otherworldly and pale, and John found he could speak without the hurt, without the longing. Because this, too, was Sherlock. And Sherlock needed him.

“Yes. Tell me why,” Sherlock breathed, and John took his wrist, turned his palm up. He didn't look at the patches, not yet.

“Because I would not allow it,” he told him, holding the relaxed hand. “At first I didn't know why. I'd go through the flat, looking for them, but I never found any. Doesn't mean he didn't have them there, of course. But I stopped doing that after I understood. He'd never take them as long as I lived there.” He slid his fingers over the sensitive skin of Sherlock's inner arm, slowly towards the hateful patches. The hand remained still, easy in his hold.

“He'd never use, because I was his friend. He valued our friendship that much. He knew he didn't have to. So you don't have to either, Sherlock. Because I'm your friend. Don't forget that I saw you earlier, I saw you didn't want to do this. We'll figure something out. You're brilliant, you don't need these, and fuck to what the superintendent thinks.” His fingers found the edge of the first patch and he peeled it off, slowly and gently, from the unresisting arm of his friend.

Sherlock, the total and utter bastard, chose that exact moment to burst out laughing, knocking his hand off and ripping the other patch away carelessly.

“Excellent, John!” He congratulated between the chuckles. “I knew it would work!”

What the hell? He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but found nothing worthwhile to say. What was going on? Had Sherlock finally lost it?

“Nicotine patches,” Sherlock chuckled. “You gave me the idea yourself. And your pathos just now, it was perfect!” He descended into another sniggering fit, helplessly sprawling on the table. John stared, dumbfounded.

“You – you fobbed me? You dick!”

“Oh John you're brilliant. I never knew you cared so much,” Sherlock snorted, clutching his stomach between quick indrawn breaths.

Embarrassment was coming fast, his cheeks growing red and his heart beating overtime. Damn Sherlock and his infernal games. Here was John, stranded and yet trying to help, and this was what he got in return? Mockery and deceit. It was – it was just like at home. He couldn't help it. Shame became a huge grin, and in the next second, there were two of them helplessly chortling and giggling in the living room of 221B, urging each other on.

“You, you bastard,” John forced out and Sherlock wiped tears from his cheeks, giving him a sober look.

“Seriously though,” he said, “if it fooled you, they won't stand a chance.”

“But you still have to play the part,” John reminded him. “I've seen you high on the stuff. What if you get excited and forget?”

“Not a problem,” Sherlock said, smiling at him. “That's why I have you.”

John blinked.

“Me?”

“You told me it was your job to keep me out of trouble, don't you remember? You'll come with me, remind me if necessary. And anyway, it's easier to control now that Victor helped.”

The mention of Victor suffocated his mirth at once. The joy of laughing with Sherlock was superimposed with pictures of Sherlock laughing with him, then kissing him, his lips wet and open, his long fingers digging into those muscular arms.

“Stop that,” Sherlock barked at him, “I already told you it's not what you think.”

“Then what is it exactly, Sherlock?” John couldn't help but ask, the venom of his thoughts difficult to contain now that it had come back. “Because it sure as hell looked like what I was thinking about.”

Sherlock looked at him like he was a child, and a slow one at that.

“I needed a dom,” he said, “and I trust him. He's as dull as they get, but he gets the job done. So stop worrying about Victor, it's tedious and pointless and uses up valuable time.”

“What do you mean, you needed a dom?”

“It was a tense day, and I had to relax, and the last time was with the gang and even you must understand that that really didn't help,” Sherlock spoke slowly, the unspoken obviously hanging low in the air all the time.

“I don't get it,” John confessed. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, John! Haven't you been studying at all?”

Pictures of the Calabi-Yau manifolds flashed across his mind. John sighed. “I have, but so far I've got nothing.”

“There are two types of people,” Sherlock said, and John got an impression they were talking about two different things altogether.

“I take it you aren't building up for a lame joke?”

Sherlock groaned.

“Submissives and dominants,” he said and suddenly John knew what Sherlock would sound like if he was a lecturer, one who was lethally bored with his subject anyway. “Everyone is one or the other. Except you, my curious doctor. They have different needs. Dominants need to take care of things, to establish their authority and be responsible. They have many venues to pursue these things. The submissives need to, well, to submit. Switch off for a moment now and then. Obey the rules. There are many ways to go about this as well. And lastly, there are ways to fulfil both of those needs, for the people who find that the conventional ways – don't work for them.”

John sat and waited. Judging from the way Sherlock bothered his lower lip, more was coming. This was the stuff Mycroft had been telling him about. He'd forgotten all about it in his haste to somehow get away from this place. Now it was all coming back, and he found himself hoping he'd taken time to finish reading about this. There was something here which bothered Sherlock a lot. If he understood better, he was sure he could catch it.

“I'm a submissive,” Sherlock said after a long silence.

John stared. “No.” 

It made no sense. Sherlock was proud, he was independent, he was untouchable. His presence filled any room he walked into. It couldn't be true.

“Yes! And so help me, before morning I'm going to teach you how to pretend to be a dom. After all, your namesake was. It can't be that hard. And then they can't keep me away from the crime scenes any longer. Not when I have a live-in dom to keep. Me. In. Check.” The last words were snarled from between his teeth, and John knew the night would be a long one.

And that he had some serious thinking, and reading, to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like sunshine in a place where they threaten us with 20 cm of snow tomorrow. That place is right here. Send me some sunshine, save me from the snow.


	10. Acting and Reacting

Molly Hooper was just as skittish as the version of her John had come to know. She led them through the halogen-lit corridors of the hospital nervously chattering, and it was only a matter of time before coffee would be offered.

What was different was the way Sherlock reacted to her. Gone were both the indifferent abuse of her infatuation and the offhand remarks of her looks. Instead Sherlock padded quietly a careful half a step behind them, spoke only when Molly or Lestrade asked him something, his eyes glazed over and looking far away. It was upsetting and spooky, and John hadn't missed the worried looks Molly had thrown their way. He hated the concern in her eyes and wanted nothing more than let the charade go. He had been aware of Sherlock's acting skills earlier, remembered the crocodile tears and the easy lies he threw around to get what he wanted, but this was something else. John was _in_ it, for crying out loud, and still he felt pity, compassion for the poor man.

Shudder to think what Sherlock could do to him if he set his mind into it.

No, wait. Sherlock already did that. All right, then.

The transformation from the cocky consulting detective to this epitome of male meekness had been fast and confusing. Sherlock had stepped into a cab as himself, told John curtly to shut up and let him concentrate, and then stilled. Out of the cab came a different man, passive and calm, and somehow sporting huge, black pupils to go with the white nicotine patches they had plastered onto the skin of his arms. It was more than enough to make John himself worry. Behaviour was understandable, but how on earth did Sherlock control his body's autonomous reactions?

He could admit to himself that he had had some doubts about Sherlock's ability to keep on fooling everybody, but that had been before they had met Lestrade in the hall. The detective inspector had given Sherlock a dismayed look, frozen and turned slowly at John.

“He actually complied?” The fact that the question was aimed at him and not at Sherlock bugged John, but they had spoken about this during the night. John was expected to do most of the talking. He had protested and pointed out that Sherlock was the chatty one, but that had been shot down by Sherlock answering that it was easier for him to keep quiet than to modulate everything that came out of his mouth and was John going to complain about every little thing? The discussion had briefly devolved then into a bickering contest which Sherlock had (naturally) won by wondering aloud if he'd be better off using the real patches after all.

And now they were here, in the morgue with Lestrade and Molly, and John couldn't help thinking that if somebody was going to botch this up, it wouldn't be Sherlock. His mood had been tense when they started, and it was only going downhill as the morning progressed. Meanwhile Sherlock remained serene, black-eyed and only partially there, and seeing him like that in this place of so many shared memories made John's stomach turn.

“Here he is,” Molly said and uncovered the first of the three lined bodies. The last victim was a teenager with reddish brown hair and a light complexion. The bruises on his upper torso and face only made the deathly paleness of his skin more pronounced.

“Do we have an ID?” John asked, remembering his role as the unneeded communicator between Sherlock and the rest of the world.

“Allister Merritt, hailing from Kent,” Lestrade answered, offering a folder, and Sherlock suppressed a snort only John was close enough to catch. It made him feel a lot better – despite his eerie stillness Sherlock was still fully engaged in the happenings. And even though he hadn't got more than a glimpse at the body yesterday, and that from behind an angry tech, he had still figured out the boy wasn't a Londoner. 

But this was as far as John was willing to go. They were inside, and Lestrade could report back to his demonic boss that Sherlock Holmes was tamed. Mission accomplished. And John was starting to suspect that if he had to see Sherlock like this for one minute longer, the detective wouldn't end up being the only one getting banned from the investigation.

“Yes, thank you, very kind of you, we'll talk to you later when he's finished with them, go have a coffee or something, he's got a thing for you anyway, give it a chance,” John snapped, turned Molly around by her shoulders and herded both of them out of the door, closing and locking it on their surprised faces. His heart was beating angrily and he had to make an effort to unclench his stone-cold fists, to control his rapid breathing. Madness, all of this was madness. A world where drugging the most brilliant mind he'd ever come across was considered an acceptable measure of punishment for pointing out somebody else's failings was not a world he could endorse.

When he had calmed down enough to move without breaking anything he opened his eyes to find Sherlock studying him curiously from behind the corpse of one Allister Merritt. John groaned.

“That wasn't part of the plan,” Sherlock pointed out, as sharply as he should always do.

“Well plans change,” John answered, stalking across the room. “It was an idiotic plan anyway.”

“It got me in,” Sherlock countered airily, and John couldn't stop, had to keep advancing, marching straight into his face. Their height difference had never bothered him less. He felt like he could stare Sherlock down even lying down, just now.

“At what price?” He asked, and if it came out sounding more a growl than words, well, he thought he could be forgiven. “When you asked me for my help, you never said it would be like this. That _you_ would be like _that_. It's not right. Sherlock, nobody should be allowed to demand this of you. Nobody.”

The blown pupils, he noticed, were still there, even if otherwise Sherlock was back to normal. Had he used some eye-drops when John hadn't been looking?

Sherlock shrugged. “It's the standard procedure.”

Had he thought he was angry before? He had been wrong. _Now_ he was truly angry. “No! The standard procedure is yelling at you for being socially incompetent and then letting you in anyway because you're also too fucking clever for your own good and see more with a glance than Anderson does with his years of so-called expertise. There's a name for this sort of thing, and how you, of all people, accept it is beyond me. But so help me, Sherlock, if all I can do is give you a moment to do your work in peace I will do that in a second and don't you dare _criticise_ that.”

“As you just so aptly demonstrated,” Sherlock murmured and John realised that their faces were very close together, close enough for him to feel a warm breath on his skin. Sherlock's pupils were huge, his lips wet, and suddenly John remembered how soft those lips were, how hot around his questing finger. His finger, which was now pushing against something cold and sharp, the corner of the metal autopsy table. He glanced down – and saw the pallid chest of Allister Merritt. His breath escaped in a huff, and his temper with it. He took a step back, examined the corpse to clear his head from Sherlock's proximity.

“Right,” he said, weakly, “what are we looking for here?”

“I suppose it doesn't matter,” Sherlock said, and John blinked. “Possessive or territorial behaviour is acceptable in the first stages of a relationship.”

Oh God. John opened his mouth, the well practised answer already half-formed. “I'm not -,” but he had to cut himself short, think again. So maybe he wasn't gay, but there was that another word, the one Sherlock had thrown at him so flippantly just before his mental breakdown yesterday. And while his motivation here had not been securing Sherlock all to himself, he couldn't deny the protectiveness he felt for him, the determination not to fail again. Where there was Sherlock Holmes, there would be John Watson as well. To not be with Sherlock was unthinkable.

Fuel for thought, that was. He knew he had already used the l-word, referring to the other one, but was it such an impossibility it could be applied here, too?

How many times could he fall for the same man?

“You may expect a call from my brother very soon now.”

Oh _God_. Ignore this, ignore all of this, and it will go away. Except that he had a sinking feeling that this time, it wouldn't. Oh well, he could always try. Back to business, then. The investigation. They were here for the investigation and nothing else. Certainly not for shagging on one of the autopsy tables, no matter what his out-of-control imagination was coming up with.

“The cause of death?” 

Sherlock, the git, grinned at him with a face full of teeth before turning his attention, thankfully, _finally_ , at the reason they had come here for. That left John free to ogle him, except of course he was doing no such thing. He was merely following Sherlock's process, his fingers which were flying over the victim's wounds, his lips which were forming whispered words. He was being very methodical, Sherlock was. It was only natural to appreciate that.

Shit.

“Repeated blows by a blunt instrument leading to a punctuated lung and internal bleeding,” Sherlock said, mercifully interrupting his thoughts, and pointed at the dark bruises on the victim's ribs. “The bruises on his head look dangerous but wouldn't have been fatal alone. Had he received only those, he would have been badly concussed but otherwise fine. But that's not what's interesting here. Both of the earlier victims had traces of an experimental medicine in their systems. If he has been injected with it as well, it ties all three of them together.”

John flicked through the folder he had appropriated from Lestrade earlier, relieved to have something to do. The victim's name, date of birth, other personal information greeted him on the first page. What he wasn't used to seeing there was the word 'submissive' printed up next to other official information. No time to dwell on that, now. He turned the pages until he found Molly's autopsy report. She seemed to agree with Sherlock on the cause of death and the severity of the blows to the head. The tests had come back early this morning. John's practised eye flew over the results with ease, the familiar rhythms of their co-operation calming him down.

“Yes, there's a mention of it here,” he said as soon as he spotted it. “Seropidol? I've never heard of it.”

“You probably never had any reason to,” Sherlock answered, examining the victim's knuckles and fingers as he spoke. “It's still in development. It's meant to help the people who are unhappy with their orientation. Caused quite a stir when the press learned about it. Apparently, that sort of thing is frowned upon. Mycroft had a field day. You know how he hates legwork.”

John chuckled before his brain caught up with what Sherlock was implying.

“You mean there were riots?”

A shrug. Public disorder was clearly beneath Sherlock's notice. John made a mental note to do some research on the medicine himself. He should have known that anything involving Mycroft was naturally repellent to his little brother. 

“What did you mean, orientation?”

“Not all dominants are happy to be that way,” Sherlock explained, speaking freely now that the topic had moved away from his brother, “and neither are all the submissives. But the willingness to change is not enough. The research team producing seropidol believe it could ease some of the obstacles those people are going through.”

“Oh.” Was this something Sherlock himself had thought about? John couldn't guess, and Sherlock's voice had been clinical when he had talked about it. He wanted to ask, but Sherlock straightened, launched into a deduction.

“He fought back. Neither of the earlier ones did. The first victim was already dead by the time she was beaten. The second one was so weakened he couldn't effectively defend himself. But this one was injected with the same drug, and yet remained strong enough to land some hits himself. The knuckles of his right hand are bruised, see? And he was being restrained during the attack, there are finger marks on his upper arms. It doesn't fit, the medicine should be the cause of death but it isn't, and the killer has worked alone up to this point. There are too many variables here.” His voice was annoyed, as if the killer's failure to stick to a norm was a sin far greater than the actual killings.

“Maybe the drugger wasn't the killer?”

“But why give him the medicine at all, then? That's his whole modus operandi. First he drugs them, then he beats them. Serial killers don't change their behaviour like that. It doesn't make sense, not unless -,” and there it was, the expression John lived to see on his friend's face, the wonder of a revelation. He waited for it. He didn't have to wait for long.

“Of course! Oh John, it's obvious! A bit disappointing, but obvious. It's not a serial killer at all.”

“What? But three people are dead!”

“Irrelevant,” said Sherlock, brushing away this mild inconvenience with the flick of his hand, and John was reminded why the detective used to get in trouble for his attitude. Sherlock saw his face and sighed.

“The fact that there are three bodies and not just the one is irrelevant. There's some connection between them, that's obvious, but three victims and a connection do not yet a serial killer make. Lestrade was too impatient with that definition. There's something else going on here, something I've missed. I need to see his clothes.”

“His clothes?”

“Remember the grass I told you about? The one Anderson trampled on, causing this whole mess? Either Allister Merritt or his attackers brought it there. In any case, if I find any more of it, it might lead us to his killers. So go and get his clothes for me.”

–

Meeting Lestrade again was awkward, and not only because of his earlier outburst. The detective inspector winked at him over his cup of coffee and John groaned, waved good-bye to his years of protests. Let them have it their way, then. He didn't have the energy to fight anymore. The Met had been sure they were shagging since the day one in the other London. And while some things had changed, John was quietly resigned to the fact that this wouldn't be one of them. Lestrade proved him right straight away. John briefly felt bad for Molly, but she was nowhere to be seen. Good. Less eyewitnesses that way. 

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” he stated, grinning. “I did wonder about the live-in doctor, but you never know with the Holmeses. And you were quite – agitated when you called me the other day. I should have got it then and there.”

“Yes, thank you,” John muttered, but then a thought struck him. Generally speaking, Sherlock was the same. But there had been many moments which had been just – off. Some help in understanding those would come in handy. “Any tips on how to handle him?”

Lestrade just laughed. “I've known the man for six years, and no, I've got no idea. Looks like you have the situation under control, anyway. But if you need a shoulder to cry on, don't hesitate to call me.”

Of course. They'd had this discussion before, with the same results. No help from Greg where it came to handling Sherlock, then. But the offer was tempting, letting things slide back to normalcy with him. He was a good friend, and a great listener. But the danger of being found out, saying more than he should know, was too high. He couldn't risk it, not yet anyway. Maybe later, when they had learned to know each other again on the crime scenes first.

_Making plans, eh, Watson?_

**Lost? Looking for your place?**

_Not wanting to go back anymore?_

He shook the stray thoughts and the strange leaflet both out of his mind. No time for feeling sorry for himself now. He'd made an arse of himself yesterday already. No reason to give a repeat performance here, and certainly not in front of Greg.

“Thanks,” John said. “I'll keep that on mind. He asked for the victim's clothes. Can we take a look at those?”

He was given the bags along with the usual speech about not spoiling the evidence. He was already turning to leave when Lestrade called him back.

“Doctor Watson?”

“Yeah?”

“Seeing him like that was – not good. I'll speak with the superintendent again. I think if you keep him company, he could be allowed in without the patches. If you ask me, the whole decree was ridiculous in the first place.”

Oh.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, John smiled a genuine, free smile.

“Thanks, Greg. Much appreciated.”

The evidence bag in hand, John headed back towards the morgue. His steps felt lighter, the corridors brighter. There was some justice in the world after all.

In the cafeteria, Lestrade sent a message to a number well rehearsed but never before used.

_It's done._

Exactly twenty seconds later, a return message arrived.

_Thank you. MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A comment is like a surprise birthday text from Mycroft - both terrifying and precious. Spread the terror, leave a comment.


	11. Puzzle Pieces and Ponderings

“But don't you want to take a look?”

“No, not really. And besides, if I did you'd just mock me afterwards.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, Sherlock, and I'm quoting your other version here, 'I'd miss everything of importance'.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“He was quite the dick, wasn't he?”

“ _Is_. He is quite the dick, but then again, so are you.”

“You can't know that.”

“Of course I do. I've known you for long enough. Ten minutes would probably be long enough.”

“No, I meant the other thing. You can't know that he's still alive. On the contrary, it's almost certain that's not the case, as is evidenced by your presence here.”

“...Shut up and observe, Sherlock. And don't say a thing until you've got something worth saying.”

“But I was only correcting -”

“ _No_ , Sherlock.”

“All right, John. As you wish.”

And it was too painful to accept, this idea of Sherlock, his Sherlock, dying alone in that warehouse. Maybe it would forever be, because the horror of that thought hadn't abated at all during the last weeks. It was much better this way, with John clinging to the hope of Mycroft sweeping in, saving the day. After all, John had had time to call him, hadn't he? Or maybe Mycroft had his men following Sherlock even earlier, it was a drugs case after all.

That was it. Mycroft had been worried about Sherlock relapsing and assigned an agent to tail him. The agent had saved Sherlock. He was alive. He probably missed John, but the image of him alive and alone was a thousand times better than the one of him being just dead, a bullet ripping through that magnificent brain.

Yes. Somewhere, out there, the other Sherlock was alive and doing just fine. Of course he was. And John might be stuck in the arse end of the multiverse, but in the end he, too, was just fine.

There was nothing wrong in imagining that.

–

“Moronic, idiot, asinine _Anderson_.”

“So you couldn't find anything, then?” John put down the folders of the earlier victims and concentrated again on Sherlock, who had spent the last hour poring over the late Allister Merritt's possessions.

“Stepping on them, destroying the evidence, how could he be so blind!” Sherlock raved, tearing around the lab in his sleek suit. For a crazy moment, John missed the Belstaff. It would have billowed majestically just now, but Sherlock had left it outside, as per Molly's orders.

Was it any wonder John had trouble adjusting, then? Sherlock following anyone's dictations was a foreign thought, him bending on Molly's will was just plain wrong. The sweet, unassuming Molly Hooper, ordering the haughty Sherlock Holmes around. As if that could ever happen.

And then it did.

“I don't know, Sherlock, did you check his mouth?”

“His mouth? He wasn't chewing the grass, John, it was _on the ground_. Where Anderson _pulverised_ it.”

“We once solved a case where the killer left a greeting card of sorts in his victims' mouths.”

“But that's imbecilic, why did he want to leave clues?”

“Because he belonged in an organisation which required that.”

Sherlock turned stone quiet.

“His tattoo!”

“You mean the one with the kittens?”

“Obviously, John. He doesn't have any others. Also, don't forget the insipid poem that went with it.”

“But he wasn't the criminal, Sherlock. He's dead. He was murdered. Why should the tattoo matter?”

“Because he's too different from the other two, they have a connection but he came from nowhere, and the timing is wrong and I'm still missing something!” And he slumped down into a plastic chair with a great heave of exasperation, his face on his hands. It was Sherlock Holmes in his best 'the universe is conniving against me' fit and John sighed, ready to act as the voice of reason once again.

“Talk me through it, it has helped in the past,” he suggested and Sherlock puffed, as if such activity was behind the high esteem of a consulting detective.

“Just try it,” John urged, and Sherlock exploded.

“Why? How could it possibly solve anything? What can you bring into this which I haven't already dismissed? It's just wasting time!”

Because oh, this was a Sherlock who was used to working alone, who didn't experience the easy camaraderie which John had grown accustomed to. He was stuck, and restricted, and unsure how to proceed, and it was eating him alive. He'd be reaching for a cigarette just now if he had any on his person.

“The frailty of a genius,” John said, melancholically. “It requires an audience.” It was the first time he really grasped the meaning behind those words, seeing Sherlock like this. Out there, somewhere, was now another one, as lonely, but who had tasted something better, who knew what he missed. Had he been like this, before? It was easy to imagine. How long would it take for him to revert back, or would he take another flatmate, another blogger to record his adventures? (No, no, he couldn't. Could he? He was famous now, if he wanted he'd have candidates queuing up behind his door. Candidates to replace John.) The longing returned, as if it had never left at all, but this time it was accompanied by jealousy. And what right had John being jealous, after thinking about the other Sherlock the way he did? What a mess this was, and now with two Sherlocks in such a state and John no help at all.

Sherlock jerked his head up, gave him a quizzing look. “That's not something I've often -,” but then he snorted, changed his tracks. “I don't have a use for your nostalgia, John. Keep it down.”

“He told me that,” John said quietly, eyes on his hands. “It stuck with me. Do you know he used to talk to the skull before I came along?”

“It's a good listener,” Sherlock sniffed, and John gave him a sad smile.

“Yeah, but I'm better. I have your – I have his word on that. I'm better.” Briefly, he wondered if he should print that on a business card. Medical doctor John Watson, former RAMC, better listener than the skull. That would bring all the girls to the yard.

Except, of course, he didn't want any of the girls. Not anymore.

He was startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock's voice. He sounded unsure and flippant in equal measures, and in Sherlock-speech that meant he feared ridicule. But he was talking about the case. He was doing as John had asked him to.

“The first victim was found in her own apartment, poisoned and beaten. The violence happened post-mortem. Nothing was stolen, the locks weren't broken. She was a wealthy woman, the house had a security system. It wasn't triggered.” Sherlock stopped, gave him an uncertain look. John nodded, filled in the gaps. Seeing Sherlock this hesitant to show off made him want to strangle Anderson himself.

“She let the killer inside. She knew him.”

“Obviously.”

“That's what anyone could have found out. But you saw more, of course you did. Tell me, Sherlock. What did you observe?”

Sherlock stared at him. John stared right back.

“Seriously?”

“Do I look like I'm kidding you?”

Sherlock shook his head, drew a deep breath. Then another.

_Let lightning strike Anderson and the superintendent both. Twice._

“You surprise me, John,” the detective admitted, and John worked hard to keep his expression neutral.

_Make that Mycroft as well, for leaving him alone with this. Worried, my ass._

“Well?” He asked.

“Patricia Rey was an unhappy dominant who hadn't worked a day of her life, relying on her family's fortune to keep her comfortable. She frequented nail saloons and tea houses. She wasn't married, but had a long-standing secret relationship with another dominant, male, older than her. They never met at her house, though, and she went into great lengths to keep every trace of him out of that place.”

“But you found him anyway,” John murmured, not wanting to disturb the flow, and Sherlock nodded.

“Her phone, of course, but the handbag was a dead giveaway as well. She didn't smoke, yet carried around an opened pack of cigarettes, men's gloves and a memento from him. Really, even without the handcuffs and the condoms it was a clear case.”

“Handcuffs?” John exclaimed, and Sherlock gave a shrug.

“For playing. The woman desperately wanted to be a sub, even though in reality she was anything but. The props make submitting easier. So the relationship was a happy one, probably based on more than just the sex, although they didn't have another meeting planned for three days. She was scheduled to give a speech in a fundraiser for the research team two days after the killing. The meeting should have been celebratory, then.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You mean -.”

“Yes. She had a package waiting. Innocuous, brown, the sender's logo not in sight. Very easy to deduce what kind of object might be inside.”

For a second, John let his imagination run wild. Oh my. “Is the lover our suspect?”

“No. He has nothing to gain from her death. They had no official ties, and would never have had if she fancied keeping her lifestyle. The risk of being found together far outweighed any potential profit for either of them.”

“What if she wanted to go public, maybe in the fundraiser?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't think so. Taking part in charity or sponsoring was not usually her style. She had a personal interest in the medicine, and wouldn't have wanted to jeopardise that.”

“Then who's the suspect?”

“A member of the research team seemed likely at first. It's very possible that she was anxious to see the project finished and the medicine in the market. Demanding faster action might antagonise some of the scientists. But then the second victim turned up. George Acker, the leader of said team. A respected, if polarising figure. He was a very visible advocate for the switchers, discussed in press, revered by his team. They were shattered by his death.”

“The tie between the team and the murders seems very strong,” John pointed out, leafing through the earlier victims' folders. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes. But they haven't let me anywhere near them, and the lab is tightly behind lock and key. Very difficult to do any kind of – private investigation.”

“We once walked into a top secret military lab in search of a rabbit,” John reminisced, and Sherlock brightened up.

“You must tell me about that sometimes.”

“Yeah, I might,” John sighed, telling his stomach that he wasn't really sad, that this was ridiculous. “I think I will. Hadn't pulled rank in ages. It felt – liberating somehow.”

“Liberating?” Sherlock echoed, his eyes gaining a suspicious gleam, and John shrugged.

“I guess. How does our mister Merritt fit in?”

Sherlock threw his hands up. “He doesn't! He came literally out of nowhere. No previous ties to any of these people, a history of petty crime. He's a submissive, for crying out loud, when both of the earlier ones were dominants. He's totally random. And as I said earlier, even the murder method doesn't match.”

“But he still had the drug in his blood.”

“So he did,” said Sherlock gloomily and kicked the leg of his chair.

“You said he has a history of crime. Maybe he stole it?”

“Not from that lab, no he didn't,” Sherlock said with conviction. “I couldn't get in. He had no chance.”

“Oh,” John uttered, deflating. It really seemed confusing, all these unfitting pieces.

“The drug must be the key,” there was exasperation in the detective's voice now. “If I only could _see_.”

“What else do we have on him?” John tried, “Apart from the drug?”

Sherlock shrugged, stalked to stand next to the body on the slab.

“21 – no, 19 years of age, new to London, nervous disposition, biter of fingernails, scrunched shoulders, attempts to look smaller than he is, favours his left leg, possible earlier damage from fighting or falling, probably both at the same time, abuses alcohol, mostly cheap beer, had a girlfriend back in Kent, still dreams about her although resigned to the fact that she's out of his league now, confident with knife, eats mostly fast food, had fish and chips a couple of hours before his death, loves his mother, all in all an utterly tedious human being apart from being dead” he recited in fast succession, pointing at various parts of the body as the deductions flowed, leaving John feeling breathless in his stead. 

“That was brilliant,” John smiled, “that was amazing. Sherlock, that was, finally, that was – _you_.”

Silence filled the room as Sherlock seemed to stop breathing altogether. When he turned towards John, it was as if he moved in molasses. While John was watching, the cream of his cheeks was replaced with the faintest of pinks, the darkness overtook his pupils once again and he took one, two unstable steps to stand in front of the doctor. He stood and stared for a long moment, seeming to appraise the sincerity of John's statement, and when he sighed the exhaled air took his legs with it. Down he went, onto his knees in front of John, leaning his forehead against the doctor's stomach.

John, very consciously, did not panic.

He did not panic, and he did nothing at all, staying quiet and unmoving like a statue, only his thoughts flurrying forward with an alarming speed.

_Right. This is happening. I think I understand. This is the submissive thing. I've read about this, haven't I? Didn't I? I think I did. I did something he liked, what did I do what did I do? Was it the praise? But I've praised him before. He's done this before. But he was high then, that didn't count. He's not high now, isn't he? Of course he isn't. So what's this? Oh God oh dear oh no Mycroft you bloody great idiot, was it because I said he behaved like he should? Oh shit how repressed are you, Sherlock? I'll kill them, I'll kill all of them, for hurting you like this. This is not. On._

Very carefully, he moved his left palm to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezed gently.

“It's all right,” he murmured and hoped he didn't sound half as patronising as he felt.

“Obviously,” Sherlock quipped, pressing his face into John's navel.

_Oh thank God he's still himself, he's still in there._

Sherlock seemed content to linger where he was, taking deep even breaths as John clumsily petted his shoulder, for once not in a hurry for anything. John wondered how his knees didn't cramp. He wondered how they had ended up here. He wondered what would happen if someone opened the door. And lastly, he wondered how much longer Sherlock was planning to take.

At last, Sherlock raised his chin, drilled him in place with the force of his grey stare.

“Thank you,” he said plainly. “I mean that.”


	12. Not a Perfect World

As fate would have it, Molly chose that exact moment to open the door and shatter the heavy silence with a surprised squeak. John, feeling guilty, froze with his palm clasped on Sherlock's shoulder and his eyes hold captive by the detective's all-seeing gaze.

”I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -,” Molly started, high, stepping back and trying to shut the door. But Greg was standing right behind her, and she collided with his chest, squeaking again and turning an alarming shade of red.

”What's the matter -,” Lestrade asked, laughing, before peeking inside over her shoulder and cutting himself off. ”Oh. Did we interrupt something?”

The only one who remained unaffected by the whole spectacle was Sherlock himself, who pressed his cheek once more on John's shirt before rising fluidly up, ignoring the proceedings on the doorway. He went to stand by the body once again, crouching over it as if all of this was normal, just another everyday occurrence in the life of a consulting detective, nothing to fuss over.

 _Nothing wrong with his knees then_ , John thought, fighting a schoolboy urge to break into giggles and deny everything. Why didn't Sherlock say anything? He couldn't honestly assume John would take care of this, whatever it was that this was. He couldn't just do – that, and then ignore it. It wasn't fair.

But then again, when were things _fair_? Fairness had been about as far away from his life as possible without actually moving to another universe.

Wait.

Oh, shit.

Well, then. Deal with it, captain Watson you great big crybaby. Just get on with things.

”Thanks again for letting us get another look,” he blurted out, scrolling through his mental checklist of _politeness, excuses, strategic retreat, KEEP HIM BLOODY SILENT_. It was a list he had polished and perfected during his life at Baker Street, and it had spared one or the other of them a bloody nose countless of times when Sherlock's tendency to insult every breathing thing in the eyesight had gotten the better of him.

”This helped a lot,” he continued, grabbing Sherlock's sleeve and tugging him towards the door. The detective came willingly enough, keeping his eyes downcast and his movements subdued.

 _Oh right, back to character._ He hadn't even remembered. Well, this made things easier. It was more probable John didn't have to worry quite as much about the item number four on his list, the one that usually caused them the most trouble.

”We'll be in contact soon,” he promised, manoeuvring Sherlock towards the door around the blushing Molly and the widely grinning Lestrade. The latter gave him a thumbs-up behind the detective's back. John suppressed a terrified groan. How the Met would talk. This time, there'd be no end to it.

”It's practically solved already,” he hollered over his shoulder and pushed the door shut, slumping against it, drained and dry. Next to him, Sherlock stood and waited patiently, and that was so many shades of wrong that John found enough energy to keep on propelling onwards from the sheer shock of it.

Sherlock kept his silence all the way out from Barts, and in the cab back to Baker Street even when John got an absolutely _scandalous_ text from Greg, and while climbing upstairs to their flat. Although by that last point his shoulders were already shaking with the suppressed laughter, which broke free as soon as the door was safely closed.

”Their faces!” He exclaimed, leaning happily against the wall and looking so familiar John's heart knotted itself into a tight bundle around his pancreas. ”Oh poor Molly, she's devastated. And Greg! And, and you! Oh John, it was brilliant. You were brilliant.”

”And you're repeating your words,” John pointed out snarkily. He felt he was entitled to a bit of irritation after the morgue and the text (and the photo! When did Greg have the time to snap _that_?) Whatever had happened in the morgue was now gone, in its place the much more familiar feelings of frustration and dread.

Sherlock seemed to pick those up, because his laughter stilled and he peeked at John from under his mirth-heavy eyelids. Whatever it was that he saw in the doctor's face turned his own expression serious and he quickly took the four steps necessary to bring his lanky frame to stand in front of him.

”What you said in the morgue,” he said, and somehow made it sound like a confession, ”it was – very good. I meant that, John. I meant it there and I mean it now. I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable about any of this.”

”What _you_ did,” John answered, the strain loud in his voice, ”was, how to put it, surprising. He doesn't do those kind of things. He didn't - . I couldn't - .” 

How to continue? How to explain these things he didn't himself quite comprehend? The anger at everyone who had abused and misunderstood this great, vulnerable man, the mindless urge to stand over and protect somebody who empathetically didn't need nor want such protection, the compulsion not to fail again, fail this incredible second chance he had been given? He shrugged, giving up with the struggle of vocalisation.

”What I said,” he finally settled for, ”was the truth. No one should take that away from you.”

His wrist was taken by Sherlock's larger hand, and the detective led him to the chairs, pushing him down on the one he had now twice claimed as his own. But instead of moving to perch on the other chair, Sherlock sat on the floor by John's feet, leaning against him and the chair both. John's mouth felt dry, his heart weary. These were unknown waters, strange and foreboding. But where Sherlock led, he always followed. Even now, even here.

Maybe especially here.

”Relax,” said Sherlock, probably deducing his distress from the way his knees twisted. ”There are so many things you don't understand. I need to explain this to you. By now I rather think,” and he raised his face, laying bare a pair of huge black pupils and the fetching pink shade over his cheekbones, ”that you've earned the right to know.”

Certainly especially here, where Sherlock was lonely, without allies and still this open, more open than he had ever been in the other London. 

”Know what?” John croaked, unable to move his gaze from that upturned face. Angular and wide, it was both familiar and unknown at the same time, as today had demonstrated. Once again, he remembered the softness of those lips around his fingertips. Sherlock was so close. Touching would be horrifyingly easy.

The detective turned his face away, fixing his gaze at the fireplace. He cleared his throat, as if preparing to give a speech or a vow. John sat, waiting, behind him. When Sherlock was unsure it was his job to be the touchstone, to keep their heads above the water. It was a duty he cherished, and didn't plan on surrendering away any time soon.

”You keep on stumbling around the edges of this,” and here Sherlock hesitated, ”let's call it _condition_. And it confuses you. You find most of this so familiar, and then something happens which throws you off loop.”

”No,” said John, without thinking.

”No?” Sherlock repeated, in his best 'stop lying to me, it's annoying and also doesn't work' voice, but now John had a point to make, even if he had stumbled upon it by accident.

”You're correct,” he explained. ”Most of this place does indeed ring true. But the difference is always the same, and it doesn't confuse me, per se.”

Sherlock tilted his head, which had the interesting side effect of brushing his curls against John's fingers. The contact was whisper-light, but the urge to drown his fingertips into that unruly softness was almost overwhelming. He blamed the words that came out of his mouth on that, the terrible distraction that was Sherlock Holmes sitting on your toes and tickling you with his outrageous hair.

”It's you,” he confessed. ”You're the difference. I find it -,”

”John -,” said Sherlock, warning in his voice, just as John finished the sentence: ”- frightening.”

Sherlock turned around, lightning fast and furious, pushed his face up, eyes cloudy and inky black.

”But that's my point exactly,” he whispered, fiercely, trapping John into the chair with large hands pushing his knees down, a narrow ribcage wedged between them, all indignation and disappointment.

”I'm not him, I never was him, I can never become him,” Sherlock rattled off, and it was Cross Keys and Devon and the fireplace once again, one of them scared and the other out of his depth. ”So stop that hero worship, stop judging me by that scale, because it's something I can't ever reach, he's the ideal but I'm the truth, the grim truth if you will, and that's all I'm ever going to be. I'm real, more real than he ever was here, more real than you realise and he's not. Coming back.”

“I know,” John said sadly.

“I notice it when you look at me and think you see him,” Sherlock accused, grey eyes burning bright. “You look disappointed. But I'm not him.”

“I know,” John answered, kicking himself for not realising this sooner. Poor, poor Sherlock.

“I don't think you do,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “It happens daily. You're disappointed every day. But I cannot change, not for myself, not for you. I cannot become him.”

The last statement was uttered quietly, as if Sherlock had indeed tried and found himself lacking. That sealed it.

When Sherlock was down, it was up to John to keep them floating. 

”I know,” John said and kissed him. His mouth on those welcoming lips, his fingers under that upturned chin, his eyes open to see the other ones slide shut, to capture the little _oh_ that escaped from the other man. And then Sherlock turned pliant, turned soft and accepting, staying on his kneeling position and allowing John to keep on kissing, keep on exploring and not thinking what he was doing.

He was becoming remarkably good on that, the not thinking part.

But oh Lord, kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Actually kissing him, not just dreaming about doing it.

It was -

”I was so proud of you today,” he breathed into Sherlock's mouth, greedily drinking the small sigh that declaration brought forth from the detective. ”You were amazing, and it was then that I accepted you're real, that I have a choice to make.”

It was heartbreaking -

”I could keep on clinging to the past,” he continued, not trying to hide the hurt in his voice, ”or I could move on. And there you were, being brilliant, and I swear, Sherlock -,”

It was shattering -

”I swear if it was anybody else than you I wouldn't, I couldn't -,” and he had to stop, had to draw a deep breath from Sherlock's own lungs, feeling the damp air rise up with his fingers resting on that long throat. The detective moved back, denied John his mouth and looked at him warily. John shook his head, sad and accepting.

”I'm not confused,” he finished. ”I know who you are. I know we have known each other for only some weeks. I know there are many things I don't understand about you. And I don't care.”

It was right.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes was simply right, the way his lips felt on John's skin, the way the corners of his mouth moved in a slow, deliberate way. His mouth was hot, even hard, and his lips anything but feminine as he pushed up, off from the floor. And then he was crouching on the chair, sitting on John's lap, his hands steady on John's hair, keeping him in place under that inquisitive mouth. He had never been kissed that thoroughly, that curiously. He sat back and let it happen, not pushing for anything more.

And it was enough, there was more than enough to find out really. The slide of their tongues, the warmth of Sherlock's breath, the taste of his skin, the little sounds escaping from his throat. Just the ability to hold him proved almost too much, forcing John to draw back and lean his forehead against the solid, living chest of the magical creature otherwise known as Sherlock Holmes, to just breathe and wonder for a moment.

”There are things I feel remorse for,” he admitted to that chest because this was a moment of truth.

”I know,” the Sherlock-in-his-lap answered, ”but it's all right. It's not a perfect world.”

”No, it's not,” John realised. Somehow, that made it feel a bit better.

–

Kissing Sherlock Holmes was all of the above. It was heartbreaking, because this very deserving man had gone so long without, and it was shattering, because out there somewhere was now another one who would never be forgotten, and it was right, because how could it be anything else?

But apart from that it didn't really change anything, and soon became confusing. After a very gratifying kissing session Sherlock disentangled himself from their shared mess of limbs and slid back to floor, telling John sternly to hush up and let him think in peace. And not counting his changed position at John's feet and the implied threat that moving was very much not allowed, everything went back to normal. At least, for Sherlock it seemed to go back to normal.

John was left with tingling lips and uncomfortably tight trousers which he tried his best to ignore. Suppressing the urge to find out what those curls really felt like, however, seemed quite redundant by this point, and so he indulged with some trepidation. It soon disappeared when Sherlock pushed against his hand, seemingly enjoying the process as much as John did. A cat. The man was just like a spoiled cat sometimes.

“Greg told me something,” John suddenly remembered.

“Mm-hm?”

“He said he'd talk to the superintendent about allowing you back without the patches provided I come with you.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Isn't that a good thing?” John asked, wondering what he had missed this time.

“It's my brother's doing,” Sherlock explained, “the superintendent wouldn't give Lestrade the time of the day if he didn't want to. The man is your typical alpha male, he doesn't approve of weaker dominants like our own detective inspector at all. Thinks they're all good-for-nothing. So no, Lestrade couldn't change his mind if he stood on his head. Mycroft told him to talk to you about it. He's the one pulling the strings, once again. It's his typical meddling habit in full bloom.”

“Oh,” said John. “But -,”

“Yes yes, I suppose it's for the best,” Sherlock allowed with a royal, forgiving hand gesture. “Now shut up, I'm thinking about the case.”

John managed another eight minutes before he was fidgeting again. Sherlock sighed.

“What is it this time?”

“Are we done here? It's just that I'm not as young as I used to be and my feet are starting to protest,” John asked miserably.

“Mind over matter,” he was reminded. John grimaced.

“It's easy for you to say when your matter looks like _that_ and behaves the way you want it to. Recently, I've found out that my personal matter has a tendency to mutiny.”

With a huge sigh, Sherlock moved about two centimetres. Just enough for John to flex his toes, but his knees were still cramping.

“Um -,”

“You still see without observing, John.”

Oh no, not this again.

“What now?”

“What were we doing a moment ago?” Sherlock asked the fireplace, his voice low, his neck taut.

“Um, we were kissing. Thank you for noticing, by the way, I was starting to wonder -,”

“And _why_ were we kissing, John?” Sherlock interrupted, patience thin in his abrupt voice.

“We, ah, because we wanted to?” John hazarded. “What do you mean, didn't you want to? Oh shit, Sherlock, did I - ?”

“ _No_ , John,” Sherlock said, annoyed now. “We both wanted it. No harm done. But I think it was more than want. It was because we needed to. And John, there are other things I need from you, apart from the kissing,” and he turned around, a predatory gleam in his charcoal eyes. “And this is one of them. I tried, trust me I did, but I couldn't think with you fluttering around. And Victor really didn't help.”

“Oh,” said John, feeling lost. “I don't think I understand.”

Sherlock gave a huge sigh of the put-upon. “Of course you don't. After all, how could you? What use would it be for you and your fantasy world?”

“It's not fantasy!” John exclaimed, aggrieved.

“Well this isn't either!” Sherlock shouted, rising on his knees, bringing his nose close to John's own. “And the fact of the matter is that I need you here, over me like this, or it won't stay silent.” The declaration started a yell, but by the end it wasn't much more than a hoarse confession, the pink haze of embarrassment adorning those cheekbones once again.

A stunned silence followed, both of them taking in what was just revealed.

“You mean -,” John started.

“I can't think,” Sherlock agreed, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“If you're not sitting by my feet,” John finished, leaving an absurd echo of those words hanging behind his ears. Sherlock's cheeks flamed and he ducked his head down.

“I tried,” he admitted. “I tried and tried and asked Victor for help, but nothing worked. And then you said _brilliant_ , you said _amazing_ , you said _right_ , and it fell silent. All of it. And I could breathe, and I thought, I thought it would work. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I don't know how to do this.”

“Sherlock,” John breathed. The detective so named shook his head.

“I'm sorry, John, I shouldn't have used you to - .”

John kissed him again. Sherlock reeled back, his eyes huge with surprise.

“But why, when I kissed you just to - .”

“You daft man,” John interrupted fondly, caressing Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. Instinctively, the kneeling man pressed closer, then away again when he noticed what he was doing.

“You daft man,” John repeated, “it wasn't you who kissed me. It was the other way around. You weren't using me in any way, but thank you for telling the truth. And yes, I would still very much like to kiss you again, but I know you. The work comes first. Come. Let's go to the sofa.”

“The sofa?” Sherlock asked, letting John pull him off from the floor.

“Yep,” John answered. “I want to get into a proper slump if you're thinking for very long.”


	13. Just a Comedy of Errors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little X-Files reference in here. Couldn't resist!

John had seen Sherlock in many moods and situations, calm or anxious, lethargic or hyper energetic, happy or even scared, but never like this. There was only one way to put it that he could come up with, lazing on the sofa with his fingers deep in the black locks, the remote controller just out of reach and his thriller freshly finished. It was a time for contemplation, hushed and still as the flat and its residents were.

John wasn't interested in the magazine trends or posh pastimes like yoga, but it seemed to him that Sherlock had found his zen, whatever that was supposed to mean. The consulting detective had spent the last three hours crouching on the floor between the sofa and the small table, head bowed and so deep in thought it would have been easy to imagine he was asleep if not for the awkward-looking position he had adopted. On his knees, his forehead resting lightly on John's lap, his hands kept loosely on his sides, he mostly resembled a petulant child or a pet in search of cuddles. John, a veteran of leg pains, had been at first somewhat alarmed by Sherlock's choice of posture, but as hours passed and the detective failed to stir he had let those doubts fade. After all, this was a grown man. If his knees hurt, he could damn well do something about it himself and not except his doctor friend to baby him.

Those kisses from earlier had not been repeated. Sherlock had followed meekly enough when John had led him here, folding himself down like the world's most organic origami, and the thinking had begun. John fancied he could almost sense the whirring of that huge brain through his fingertips, gently stroking the inky curls. It was all right, this silence, because he himself had more than a few questions to sort through.

What was he to Sherlock? He hesitated to use the word relationship, judging it too mundane for his eccentric friend. But were they friends, or more than that? Friends usually didn't kiss each other as fervently as Sherlock had today done, but then again, this was not the universe John had experienced his teenage years in. Maybe the rules were different here. Maybe this whole submissive business led to more open interpretations to what was acceptable, even excepted in close friendships. Or maybe Sherlock was just messing with his head, as he was wont to do. He had admitted he had had a goal after the first kiss, had confessed about the lack of concentration he had suffered around John and his hope to somehow cure that by kissing him.

Incomprehensible man, turning everything into complicated cases of advantages and objectives. He was closer to Mycroft in that regard than John had at first thought. Or maybe it was just this Sherlock who went out off his way to press for profit? In any case, John's position here was far from clearly cut. Was he a security blanket of sorts, serving to keep the other distractions at bay, paid by occasional bursts of affection? Or was he more universally useful, quietening also the doubtful, hateful voices of those who'd like to see Sherlock down, beaten, drugged into mediocrity?

How mad was he that he was ready to accept either of these definitions, or a thousand others he had already claimed? The blogger, the boswell, the short one, the mediator, the enviable slow-brain, even the conductor of his light. Through the last years, he had been almost solely defined by his friendship with this man, and he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. John Watson took care of the mundane so that Sherlock Holmes could soar above the rest of them, and John Watson did that bloody well, was proud of the part he played in their little crime-solving duo.

If his duties from now on would include lazing around so that Sherlock could think, so what? It didn't come even close to some of the morally or legally ambiguous things they had done earlier. In fact, it was really rather nice. And the kissing was a definite bonus. So if this was all there would be to this – _relationship_ , John thought he'd manage just well. Also, the idea of anything more with Sherlock – with a _man_ – was more than little confusing for his heteronormative brain.

His fingers still lazily exploring the silky strands of hair, John let his eyes travel around the familiar living room. So many memories were enclosed inside these walls, and even more in that other place, identical in almost every aspect. He wondered how the other Sherlock was doing, what kind of cases he was working on, if he was sleeping and eating adequately. Mrs Hudson would make sure that there was always something edible in the flat, but forcing anything down the stubborn man's throat was another case altogether. It was a task more suited to John himself, or barring him, maybe Mycroft.

The idea of Sherlock sulking on his chair while Mycroft coaxed him with cakes brought a smile to John's face, but it soon faded when his eyes hit the books he had loaned the other day. They symbolised his desire to return home, and keeping them around now that things had changed felt wrong. A quick glance at the clock told him that he still had time to return them to the library if he left soon enough.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” It was a slow, slurred answer, as if the detective was drunk or tired. Or, as was more likely, just very deep in thought.

“I'll pop outside, won't be long.”

“Hmm.” Another noncommittal noise, leaving him with no idea whether Sherlock had actually heard him or not.

“Don't dash off while I'm out, do you hear me? We're a team now. Do you know what that means?”

At that, Sherlock raised his head, opened his eyes and blinked, shrugging.

“It means you don't ditch me as soon as the mood takes you,” John warned, wiggling his way to freedom. Quickly, he retrieved the books and his jacket while Sherlock rose up, stiff and slow. John shook his head.

“You brought that on yourself, you know. Did you come up with any ideas?”

“Twelve,” Sherlock yawned, stretching his neck and shoulders. “I need to get into that lab.”

“We,” John corrected.

“Hmm?” The detective wandered into the kitchen, clicking the kettle on.

“We need to get into that lab. A team, remember?”

“Of course. That's what I said,” Sherlock answered. “First thing tomorrow morning. Call Lestrade. Tell him if he wants to solve the case he'd better get me access to both the equipment and the research team. And buy some less hideous clothes while you're at it, those don't give you any credibility at all.”

“Sure, fine,” John muttered on his way out. “Whatever.”

So many things hadn't changed a bit. He could trust Sherlock to start out an unmannered jerk in any universe he happened to come across him.

To ponder such things with a straight face. How did his life turn into this? 

–

“Aren't you a fast learner,” the pretty librarian with the button nose and the distaste for coffee around her books quipped when he returned the loans. John shrugged and smiled sheepishly, still in a mood after his phone call with the detective inspector.

They had access, all right. It was, as Lestrade had put it, on his balls.

“I think I lost my motivation.”

The books were scanned and returned to a movable shelf while the librarian hummed, smiling quietly.

“Lost the motivation or found your place?”

John froze. It was that note, the one he had found between the pages of the book. The one he had imagined was meant just for him.

**Misplaced? Looking for your place? Longing for something lost?**

What did she know about it?

“I've felt quite misplaced recently,” he said carefully. The librarian nodded, giving him a little, thoughtful frown.

“Sometimes we lose ourselves without even trying,” she answered, and now she was definitely watching him, gauging his reactions.

_Damn it. In for a penny, in for a pound._

“It's a totally different world,” John hazarded, trying for a self-deprecating smile in case he had this all wrong.

“Yes, it is, isn't it?” The words were precisely pronounced, yet John felt a wild surge of – liberation? Could it be? Did she really talk about the same thing that he did?

He was offered a neatly-manicured hand and a smile that was many degrees sharper than the earlier ones.

“John Watson.”

“Mary Morstan. We need to have a little chat.”

–

Mary called in her colleague from the back rooms and led him to a café across the street. She walked with neat little steps and refused to say another word before being seated, spending the time typing furiously on her phone. For a moment, John was reminded of Anthea, but Mary didn't have the same dark style, the same mysterious air around her. She seemed ordinary, even safe. Just a librarian. Did she really understand what he was going through?

Only when the coffee was being served did she melt, giving John an apologetic little shrug.

“It's so rare we find another one, I had to tell the others straight away.”

_Oh GOD._

“There are others?”

“Four. We keep our eyes and ears open and hope to catch more, but it's difficult. Either people learn to shut up quickly or they end up locked up somewhere. You're the first one I've got.”

John blinked, and blinked again. This was too surreal, and out of nowhere came the terrible urge to burst into giggles, or maybe hug her, or run away screaming. In the end he opted to take a careful sip of his coffee.

“You seem very composed,” Mary noted, looking at him carefully. “I was a wreck of nerves, myself.”

“It's all a cover,” John offered, smiling. “In reality I'm in shock.”

“Keep it up,” Mary advised him. “We've got a procedure of sorts to go through. You ready?”

“What, here? Isn't this a bit public place for this sort of discussion?”

“On the contrary, you can't find a place more anonymous in London than a café,” Mary answered, taking a delicate sip of her coffee. “People come here to be seen, not to see. As long as we talk quietly no one will mind us. So, you ready?”

There was a sharpness in her voice now, something which reminded John of his army days. It was a good mindset to fall into in a situation like this, and he nodded, letting the familiar calmness spread into his limbs, his trigger finger, his brain. Relax and concentrate, his old trainer had told him. Just relax and concentrate, and you'll be fine, son.

“I'm ready.”

They went through the events which had led to John's ´relocation´ as Mary called it. She was mostly silent, letting him speak or look for right words, only sometimes cutting in, asking for specifications or more details. John told her about the warehouse, about Sherlock and the darkness. He explained what had happened afterwards and how he had ended up back in Baker Street. At first, speaking felt odd. These were his secrets, so long kept close that letting them out like this was difficult, even painful. But Mary was a good listener, sympathetic and attentive, and little by little the words became easier. When he reached the end, their coffees had turned cold but Mary was nodding eagerly.

“It fits Li's theory perfectly,” she said, her voice pleased and relieved. “You probably have some questions now for me?”

He did, but trying to decide where to begin was a struggle. Who was she? How had she ended up here? Was she from the same place than he? How had she found the others?

“The others,” he blurted out. “You said there were others.”

Mary nodded. “There's Li, our treasure. She has been figuring this all out. And then Claire, Matthew and Jack. He's the one who found me. We're spread out, trying to find more, but as I said, it's difficult. Matthew is all over the internet, Jack scouts the hospitals, Claire works with the press and I – well, you know what I do.”

“The leaflets,” John said, amazed.

“They worked,” Mary marvelled. “All of it's hit and miss, but we're getting better. But of course, the thing that interests you the most is Li's part in all this.”

John gestured her forward. Sherlock always saw the right things, asked the right questions. John just wrote it down afterwards. If Mary thought this Li was important, then good for her. He wasn't about to argue.

“She's been here the longest, almost twenty years. She's a scientist, and she has spent all that time thinking about how this might have started. And, John,” Mary's voice gained an edge, “there's more to her research, but it's a discussion not suited to a café. Let's go.”

“Where are we going?” John asked, grabbing his coat. Mary smiled angelically, a perfect picture of wicked glee.

“I already invited you for coffee, so you should know what the next step is.”

–

They were in a cemetery. Why did this always happen? A pretty girl invited him along, or he met his old mate, and the next thing he knew: a cemetery.

There was an old, mossed stone, no larger than two palms across. It was an infant's grave. Mary Elizabeth Morstan had died a stillborn, and yet here she stood over her own headstone, strong and proud.

“I come here often, to think about things. I tell people she was my sister if they ask.”

“I died too,” John said, feeling awkward. “Or he did. I visited his grave. It was strange.”

“Yes,” Mary answered, “they all died. Li says it's the first requirement for the relocation to happen. Your double must be gone. She died, or didn't, when a plane crashed down. She was the only survivor, except of course she didn't. She ended up thrown over her own body. Lost her whole family.”

“Oh god,” John groaned. He'd had it easy, after all. That would have been a nightmare. “You said it was the first requirement? What are the others?”

“Mortal danger,” Mary recited, counting with her fingers. “A highly stressful situation. It's very unlikely any of us would have survived there, but of course it's impossible to find out. But Li says it's important that your thoughts were not in your own survival during those moments. So the last piece is a loved one in peril, someone you desperately wanted to save. We've all had that in common.”

_Oh Lord, Sherlock._

And then it struck him.

“I never even thought,” he started, confused, “I never even thought about myself.”

Only him. It had always been only about Sherlock, Sherlock's life, Sherlock's survival. Never John's.

Mary nodded grimly. “You fit the bill quite perfectly.”

“What happened to you?” John asked, wanting to get something else to think about. Mary's face clouded over, her blue eyes turned dark.

“I really don't want to talk about it,” she said, suddenly looking older, greyer. “Suffice it to say that I made some bad choices, and they came back to bite me in the arse. He was caught in the crossfire.” She turned to look at him straight into the eyes. “Quite literally, too.”

John stared. A pretty librarian with laughter lines, she looked the most unassuming person ever. But there was darkness in those eyes, stability in that stance. She kept her hands by her sides, relaxed but not forgotten, her small feet precisely poised, her shoulders drawn back. And the way she talked, her voice gaining that hard edge now and then -

Sherlock would have seen it straight away.

“I was in the army, too.”

Her mouth turned into a smile, but it never reached her eyes.

“I wasn't quite that, but I suppose it's close enough.”

It was an unwelcome topic, that much was clear. John cast around for something to say, anything to dispel the dark clouds in her eyes.

“About those requirements,” he started, “I don't suppose – praying – played any part?”

Mary looked surprised. “No, not as such. Li just says that you had to really hope for the other person's survival. What, did you think - .”

“No, I just,” John cut her off, ashamed, “it was just a thought, okay?”

A stupid idea. Just because he had twice gotten what he had been praying for – and was it a reward, or a punishment, really? – didn't mean there were any higher powers involved. A childish thought, that had been. It was better this way. Just blind luck, or misfortune. Just a comedy of errors.

“It's possible to go back,” Mary blurted out, cutting off his thoughts. John reeled back, as if she had hit him.

“What?”

“I said it's possible to go back,” Mary repeated, her expression a bit wild. “Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about that. We all have. Li believes she can send us back, but it has to be in pairs. Something about the concentration of energy. None of the others want to go, they say they've lost everything in that other place, that it's better here, that it's not worth the risk. You're different, aren't you? I can see it. You miss it. You left somebody behind, of course you did. Come back with me, John. Come and see Li with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, should John:  
> 1) Trust her and go with the flow  
> 2) Not to trust her but still go with the flow  
> 3) Run away screaming  
> 4) Make mad love to her  
> 5) Make mad love to Sherlock  
> 6) Other, what?
> 
> And, as always, thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. I know what John's going to do. I'm just begging for comments. ; )


	14. Where We Stand

It wasn't often that John dumped a pretty girl in a cemetery, but he suspected there had to be a second time for everything. His blood was pumping in a way he distinctly diagnosed as not healthy for either himself or anyone around him, and so he disentangled from Mary's desperate handhold and told her gently he'd be in contact.

“At least take my number,” Mary said, eyes teary and disbelieving.

John did. Then he turned around, army sharp, and left to get some air. The evening was warm, the eternal mess of cars, people, noises and hurry that was London still far away, dimmed by the trees and the gardens of this distant location. He picked a route in random and walked fast, almost ran.

Fled, if he was honest with himself.

What was he doing, going away alone instead of accompanying Mary to this Li person? Was he completely out of his mind? John Watson, the one who just couldn't choose. It wasn't that the offer wasn't tempting, because it was. Everything he had yearned for offered just like that, in passing. It was an answer to his quiet torment, a golden key dangling right in front of him, in reach, but what would taking it mean?

Another jump into the unknown, that was part of the terror of it. He had no idea what would wait for him in that other place, other London. And when had it became the other London, and this just London? He wasn't part of this world! He was a stranger here and a local there first and foremost, but still this had become home. Life here was just as real, just as engaging as the one he'd had before. He'd grown attached to Mrs Hudson all over again, she was knitting him _socks_ for God's sakes, he couldn't walk out of the door and disappear.

And he hadn't yet taken Greg up on his offer for company. He was a great mate, one of the best John had ever had. And what would Mike think, and he hadn't even met Harry yet! And the case was interesting, he had already written the blog entry, if only in his head, and Sherlock - -

Of course it all bore down to Sherlock. Horrible, dangerous, vulnerable, irresistible Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes. The man was a fucking magnet, the damn true north, and John a compass drawn to him like a puppet. And he had grieved, had cried his loss, the loss of his Sherlock, the original one, but that hadn't stopped him from rushing headlong towards this one. And now leaving him was an impossibility, an anathema.

But cursing Sherlock was not right. This was all John's own doing, all his fault. What a total idiot he had been!

He should have left as soon as Sherlock had explained everything to him. Staying, no matter how tempting, had been a horrendous mistake. He'd grown attached, and Sherlock at least tolerated him, probably more judging by the recent events (although one could never be quite sure what went through that huge, idiotic brain). John had been weak, had been needy, and see what had happened!

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_!

Stupid.

–

His phone rang.

He didn't answer.

–

The sun set.

He walked on.

–

Baker Street, midnight.

Naturally, he'd come here, even when he wasn't thinking about it. Of course he had chosen the path which would, eventually, bring him back here.

He started to suspect he was programmed this way, that no matter how he struggled he'd always end up here, back in Baker Street. It was the lure and he the hapless fish, or any other sorry metaphor he could come up with. Baker Street meant Sherlock meant home meant John Watson on a short leash.

He unlocked the door and let himself in, as quietly as he could. Sherlock in a mood would stomp around, not caring whom or what his temper disrupted. John was more careful, more considerate. More hare-brained.

This world's only consulting nuisance sat on the second step of the stairs, his long legs resting on the floor, his phone tossed from hand to hand. When John stepped in he raised his head, his face pale and his expression guarded.

“You didn't answer your phone,” he said, and it was a question and an accusation both. John didn't answer, hardly heard what was said. He was bound, struck once again by the unfair beauty of the man. Sitting there, Sherlock Holmes was a sculptor's dream, a terrible combination of masculine harsh lines and untamed curls, huge eyes and unforgiving neatness. As if his burning intelligence and everything that came with it weren't enough.

 _He should be illegal_ , John thought.

 _I'm in a deep shit_ , John thought.

“You're too beautiful,” John said and only knew he was going to say that when he heard the words.

Sherlock frowned.

“You're not drunk,” he observed, but that, too, was a question.

“No,” John answered and tried to go past him, but Sherlock took a hold of his hips, drew him close.

Having that upturned fox face so near to his belt was not a thing John needed at that moment.

“You didn't answer your phone,” Sherlock repeated, and John could see his teeth, and it was too much. Too real, full of accusation of his failures. His breaths were loud in his ears and his hands trembled, both of them, and it was all wrong.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot._

“Don't touch me,” he snarled, and Sherlock jumped back as if he had hit him.

Everything was wrong, and everything hurt, and everything was his fault. And he couldn't stop inflicting more hurt on all the people he met. The trembling took his arms and his torso, until it felt like he was a string from Sherlock's violin, too tightly drawn to produce anything beautiful anymore.

He escaped, climbed the stairs and the second set of stairs and slammed his door shut, slumping against it and letting out a shuddering breath, followed by a pained inhalation, a sobbed exhalation and the total breaking of all his carefully constructed walls.

Curled up on the wooden floor of not his/his room in London/the other London, John Watson cried like he had never cried before.

And on the other side of the door, Sherlock Holmes crouched and waited and that huge brain of his whirled, whirled through it all.

–

**John?**

He looked at the note, written in Sherlock's familiar, spidery handwriting. It was more legible than his usual effort. John frowned.

“Yes?” He asked, his voice low and ruined. Another note was pushed inside from under the door.

**Can you see me without experiencing another panic attack?**

John considered that, wiping his face absently with his sleeve.

“No,” he decided, sticking with the one-syllable answers. He'd probably do something unforgivable like kiss the man. The next note was already coming. Sherlock must have written them earlier, no one wrote that fast.

**Can you at least listen to my voice?**

He loved that voice. The deep rumble of it, the rich baritone, the immaculately pronounced syllables.

“No,” he said with conviction, hoarding the note against his chest greedily, fearing the next one. Already it peeked from under the door, a yellow post-it note just like the others. His fingers itched to touch it. His eyes were afraid to read it.

He picked it up. It wasn't the question he had feared, not at all. It was something much worse.

**We're a team.**

He dropped it as if it had grown teeth and was snapping at his fingers. Those words, quoted back at him! He'd told Sherlock that so innocently, not many hours ago. When everything had been all right, even better than all right. When he had been stupidly content, making plans for the future.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he said. 

It had to be him, because there wasn't anybody else in the room and yet someone spoke. It didn't sound like John, but the process of elimination was rather straightforward. The man so called must have heard it too, because the next thing he knew the lock was being picked open and long arms encircled him, drew him against a narrow chest and a furiously beating heart. He tried to protest, but the man just held him tighter, not heeding any of his flailings, his murmured apologies.

“Shut up and explain,” he was ordered, and somehow that helped, the single-minded madness of it. He started speaking, the words pouring from his mouth unchecked, his cheek pressed against the steady heartbeat. It was different from his coming-out with Mary, rawer and simpler. He told about his trips to the library, and the books and the note, and it was half a confession and half an absolution. He told much more than he meant to, spoke of the longing and the ache, but self-censure while being hold like this seemed impossible.

Sherlock didn't soothe him, or cradle him, or do anything sentimental like that. He just kept his arms around his shoulders, listened to what poured out of his mouth and pinched his arm if he got too quiet or too rambly. It went on for what felt like ages but probably was closer to ten minutes, and at the end of it John's throat was sore again, but his breathing was easier, the high edge of his panic washed away.

“You're being an idiot,” Sherlock told him, and John sighed his acceptance, untangled from the long arms. Shame was just around the corner, but right now he was still in that hazy place between the shock and the real life where everything was soft and didn't matter.

“I know. I'm sorry. I'm being a jerkass.”

In a moment, he'd actually mean those words. Now they were just thrown around, his brain too tired to take much stock of anything.

Sherlock gave him a weird look.

“You have four hours to spend before we leave for the lab. Lestrade called me during the evening. After that, you're going to call this Mary Morstan and we'll have a little chat with her. I'd very much like to meet her.”

That cut through some of the persistent haze.

“You – you want to meet her? Why?”

“To see whether she's trustworthy, of course,” Sherlock said as if this was in any way an obvious thing at all.

“You're going to send me back?” John asked, not sure if he had heard correctly. Sherlock gave him another look.

“Isn't that what you want? To get back to your own world?”

John stared. Sherlock snorted.

“I won't pretend I don't know about the nightmares, or your little dream trips, or the times you've slipped and thought you were back. And after this performance,” he gestured at them both, still sitting on the floor “it seems you've made your decision.”

“You're going to send me back,” John repeated, not much louder than a whisper.

“Yes?” Sherlock said, clearly not seeing anything wrong with that.

“But -,” John started, uncomprehending. Didn't anything that had happened earlier matter to Sherlock at all? His confessions of needing John, the afternoon spent together on the sofa, the almost lethally curious kisses. Were all those inconsequential? Were they only important in John's own head?

“What?” Sherlock barked, impatient now.

The struggle with words was back. He opened his mouth, but nothing sensible emerged, just an undecipherable croak, a wordless question.

“Out with it, John,” Sherlock said, the familiar irritation almost tangible in every consonant.

John let out a wild gasp, grasped the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him forward. Sherlock gave a surprised yelp, froze for a second, but when John's lips descended upon his own he surrendered easily, opened for that sure tongue without a second thought. Pushing him down and climbing over his lanky frame was done in a moment and then John kissed him with all the passion he felt, all the pain and the confusion the day had brought.

The fervour with which Sherlock kissed him back was in direct counterweight with the coldness the detective had used to dismiss him just moments earlier. His mouth was John's to own, his little groans all the more meaningful for the words they'd shared a minute ago. But John needed to be sure, needed to really understand which parts of Sherlock were real, which things he really meant. He pushed his shoulders down against the wooden floor, and Sherlock accepted his weight without a complaint, made his mouth even more accessible if possible. John kissed him, and kissed him, until his lips were burning and Sherlock was writhing under him, his long fingers digging into John's thighs, and then he raised his head. Sherlock made a raw sound of protest and tried to follow, straining for more contact, but John kept him down, pinned between his grip and the hard floor.

A single low groan escaped the detective, and then he opened his eyes, blinked through the blackness of them. His lips were swollen and red, his hair a negative halo around his head, his expression one huge question mark.

“I don't understand,” Sherlock confessed, breathless and heartbreaking on John's bedroom floor, and that was as good an answer as he was going to get.

“Me neither,” John told him and kissed him again, harder. Surer.


	15. A Compelling Argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tensions have been running high lately. Here, have some relaxation in the dark before we head out for the case.

_Please, yes! This, forever and ever this._

Holding Sherlock down, tasting the soft skin of his lips, of his tongue, John scrolled through years of unrealised longing. The newspaper-dramatised moonlit chases and the early, bleary mornings all merged together into a giant feeling of belonging. Sherlock had been a constant, always present, always unashamedly himself. And now, under him, the man was a slithery snake, striving for his mouth, making little frustrated noises when he missed his target. Those sounds went straight to John's cock and he ground down, enjoying the minimal give of Sherlock's sharp hips, the harsh exhalations against his open mouth.

He could get drunk, just by kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Why hadn't they done this years earlier?

Sherlock panted into his mouth, his own clever tongue pushing insistently inside, mapping, searching. He was hot, and wet, and open, so accepting of John sprawling over him, keeping him in place. It wasn't like Sherlock at all, this submissiveness, this meekness.

Wrong. Oh _Lord_. Not Sherlock, or yes, of course, it was Sherlock, but the wrong one. Or the right one, but John's mind, his thoughts, were not here, not with him, so confused, this wasn't. He couldn't. This was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Stop it, stop it now.

“No,” John mumbled into Sherlock's mouth, his brain screaming at him but his very involved body charging ahead with full force. “This is, no, we can't. I can't. It's not - ”

Sherlock made a sound not unlike an angry tiger and pushed into his mouth, all lips and teeth and grasping fingers. Holding him was like holding a living lightning bolt, impossible, and in a second their positions were reversed. Sherlock perched on him, a wild-eyed bird of prey, and attacked to plunder his mouth recklessly. It was glorious. It was exactly like kissing him should be, the same as living with him was. Adrenaline and danger and madness. John welcomed him in instantly. But still.

“No,” John told him and sucked at that tongue, fought for his disappearing control. His mind warned about abuse and molesting, but his fingers dug into Sherlock's hips, held him against his crotch, crushed him against his bulging erection. Sherlock groaned and pushed back, biting his tongue in his haste to get somehow even closer. It was good, it was better than good, and it absolutely couldn't continue.

“No,” John sobbed, rutting and squirming and pushing and finally finding the force of will to send Sherlock flying off him, clambering over him and pinning him into the floor, safe and secure.

“I can't,” he said miserably, but Sherlock just growled at him. “Not when I'm like this.”

“Of course you can,” Sherlock insisted, giving his clothed but clearly interested cock a hard stare. It wasn't very difficult, since said cock was not three inches from his face at the moment. The bluntness of it, the clear meaning behind his actions, stole John's breath away. But at the same time, it made this easier. When Sherlock was lost, John would lead. Even here, even now.

“Not now,” he iterated, gaining confidence. “Not when I'm thinking about him. Please, Sherlock. When I'm with you I'll only think about you. Otherwise it's – a bit not good.”

“A bit not good?” Sherlock repeated, frowning. John groaned. He'd done it again. Even when he was actively trying not to, he'd still gone and done it.

“That's exactly what I mean,” he said unhappily. “You deserve better. I'm sorry. I started it and I shouldn't have. I'm going to let you go now.”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately, crushing his fingers around John's wrist. “Stay.”

“But – I'm sitting on you!” John pointed out, incredulous. On his hips, if he was to be exact. On his impossible-to-miss hard-on. Oh God. He shifted forward, to the marginally safer territory of Sherlock's stomach. Instantly, his heat seeped through John's clothes, the softer give of his unguarded flesh drew him in. Not safer, then. Nothing here could be considered safe, or sane.

“It's fine,” Sherlock answered, his voice borderline bored, like this was obvious, how they normally discussed things. His eyes, however, were very clear, almost blue, and he was blinking too much, holding back tears. Such a contradiction, this whole man. What was the truth this time, what was just a game of shadows?

“Of course it's not fine,” John muttered, “I'm crushing your lungs.” This was true, at least. He could feel the burdened way Sherlock's ribs moved under his weight.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, but to what, John had no idea. “It keeps you here with me. So that you don't get confused again.” The blinking didn't stop, the mercurial eyes desperately trying to stay dry. Yet his voice, so logical, so cold.

John stared. Sherlock, mistaking it for a question, answered with a slight, deprecating smile.

“Bet you didn't sit on him.”

“Oh. No. Only the once,” John said, his mind distracted by those sad, lonely eyes.

“You _did_ sit on him?” That tremble in Sherlock's voice, had it been there earlier?

“He was bleeding and wouldn't stay still,” John explained, cutting back the _it wasn't like this, it never was like this between us_. Whatever was going through his friend's brilliant brain, it wouldn't need encouraging.

He had put that sadness into his expression. He and his goddamned hormones, his confused mind, his idiotic choices.

Never again. He could do better. He could _be_ better.

“I won't call her,” John said, decision made. He had chosen this life, this Sherlock, the instant he had decided to stay. There was no backing out of this now. Idiot he might be, but a coward never.

Sherlock, the inconceivable terror, didn't agree.

What followed was one of the weirdest debates John had ever experienced. On one corner was Sherlock Holmes, who had apparently found the joys of being considerate at exactly the wrong moment, and on the other corner stood he himself, arguing the point of why he shouldn't do the thing he had spent the last weeks dreaming about doing. The fact that this little debate was being held on the floor of his bedroom, with him still sitting on Sherlock, as per the detective's explicit wishes, was neither here nor there.

It would have been so much easier if Sherlock would just be a jerk, but of course he couldn't co-operate. Or actually, he did. He was a jerk, was probably genetically incapable of being anything else, but he was a jerk in completely wrong way.

The jerk.

”You're being even more short-sighted than usual.”

”What do you mean?”

”Your willingness to trade your greatest wish for a momentary relief, obviously.”

”What do you mean, a momentary relief?”

Sherlock looked at him, all wide huge eyes, and tried to shrug. His horizontal position seemed to make it a bit difficult, but John could feel his ribs moving against his legs. _Too thin_ , flashed through his mind, but that wasn't the topic for this particular discussion. The actual subject was much, much harsher. He bit his lip.

”You aren't serious. Tell me you aren't implying what I think you're implying.”

“You should invite her here. It would be the sensible thing to do.”

”You have to explain this to me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pouted. This, for him, was no hardship.

”I won't coddle you just because you're obtuse.”

John bit back a relieved smile. This was closer to normalcy. This he understood: throw in an insult or two and he felt instantly better. Encouraged, he wiggled his bum over the straining ribs. Sherlock gave a soft grunt, but otherwise kept on accepting this very peculiar breach of his privacy. No, maybe not accepting. Welcoming. John shook his head at this stray thought, throwing in his next argument.

”But that's just it. Remember, I'm an idiot. It's basically guaranteed that I'll get it wrong unless you explain it to me. So please, go on. I'm very interested in hearing this.”

“You enjoy doing this,” the detective still tried to deflect.

“Interrogating you? Of course I don't, Sherlock. Now, vocalise.”

“No, I meant _this_ , showing off your strength. Establishing your dominance,” the damnable man said, wriggling under him, his back kept firmly on the floor.

“I'm not a dom and you know it,” John protested, trying not to acknowledge the squirming of those hipbones against his arse. “And in case you've already forgotten, this was all your idea.”

“My brilliant idea,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, sounding a bit breathless. Maybe John was getting heavy for him to support? Well, he could ask for John to budge over if he really wanted to. After all, he'd had no troubles asking him to plant his arse there in the first place.

“Words, Sherlock,” John stated, engulfed in saintlike patience. “They form sentences. Explanations. Now.”

“Excellent, superb grasp of grammatical skil – _don't_!”

“Now,” John iterated with a pleased smile, removing his fingers from Sherlock's armpits. Ticklish, then.

“There are two basic options, either she's lying or she's telling the truth,” Sherlock finally started, glowering at him moodily. “If she's lying, I'll easily figure that out and that's her sorted out, then. If she is telling the truth – and this I sincerely doubt, such things shouldn't be possible in the first place - ”

“But here I am,” John interrupted, saddened at Sherlock's scepticism. It wasn't that he'd go back, he'd made his choice and intended wholeheartedly to keep it, but it was a nice thought to have. That he could. That there was a way, even one he wasn't willing to use.

“But here you are,” Sherlock confirmed. “But it's still possible that she believes someone else's lie, or wish. Situation like that is ripe for inducing delusions.”

“Thanks,” John muttered, but Sherlock ignored him, intent now to finish what he started.

“You told me there were others, so meeting them all would be vastly preferred. In fact, do invite the whole lot of them here. Spotting the delusional one is easier from a group.”

“But what if she's telling the actual truth?”

Sherlock gave him the look. The one which meant that he secretly knew that John was just joking, that surely he wasn't really this thick. It irritated John to no end, because so far he'd never seen that look while actually understanding what was going on.

“I have fingers and I won't hesitate to use them,” he warned, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Then that would very neatly solve all our problems. You could go your merry way. I would get the flat back to myself. My brother wouldn't have to keep on sending you new phones.” This last one was uttered with a meaningful glance towards the kitchen, where the newest box from Mycroft waited innocently. John had had his suspicions about its contents earlier, and Sherlock had just confirmed them. All the same, he felt his shoulders drop.

Was this it, then? Was he just a nuisance, waste of space and air while they were inside? He had to know, had to ask. The question was out before he'd had time to think it through. 

”Am I really so insignificant to you?”

What if Sherlock said _yes_? What if he said _obviously_? What if he said _what did you imagine in your funny little brain_?

He didn't say any of those things.

”Well, my professional life has become easier since you showed up.”

This wasn't much better. John automatically reached for his vast reserves of sass. When in doubt, make fun of the situation.

”Gees, thanks, Sherlock. I feel so appreciated.”

”And if I'm completely honest, I'd like to have more time to study you.”

And this had potential to be even worse. John took a deep breath, decided that it would be better to just know and move on.

” - what do you mean, study me?”

Sherlock mouthed the _obvious_ , but what he actually said made John sputter and nearly jab him at the kidney with his left knee.

”It's not every month I get my very own alien to poke at.”

”Sherlock!”

”What now?” Bored, how could the man say such things and sound bored right afterwards?

”I'm not an alien!”

Another wiggle, another near-miss. Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh, like this was all John's fault somehow.

”Stop jumping on me! John, you're a sentient being from another world. Of course you're an alien.”

”I'm a human being!”

If his voice was louder than normally, shriller too, was it any wonder? Sherlock rolled his eyes, all indignation and misunderstood pride. When he spoke, he enunciated slowly and clearly, like John had trouble hearing. Or, more likely in Sherlock's case, understanding.

”From another world. You aren't even like us. Stop fighting it, John.”

”I _am_ like you. What do you mean, I'm not like you?”

At this, Sherlock's lips turned into a dark smile and something amused flashed through his expression.

”You clearly have different needs.”

Oh, it was this again. They'd been through this earlier. John frowned, tried to remember the things Sherlock had quizzed him over.

”Of course I don't. I sleep, I eat, I drink. It's all just the same.”

”No, it's not.” A definite shake of that curly head, Sherlock was aiming for the final blow. John gave up. 

”For God's sakes, Sherlock! Give me one example, just one, how I'm so different.”

”You kissed me.”

A loud silence. He hadn't known what to expect, but that hadn't been it. Something humiliating, probably, or insulting. Poking fun at his mental faculties. Anything else, in fact, but this.

” - what.”

A pair of grey eyes stared at him from the floor. Sherlock stretched leisurely, as if he was on his own bed, comfortable and cosy. 

”You heard me perfectly fine.”

John shook his head and kept on shaking. It seemed like a prudent thing to do in the situation.

”You're out of your bloody mind. More so than usually, I mean.”

”No, I don't think I am.”

”Kissing is not a basic need, Sherlock!”

”Not for me, no it isn't. I'm not so sure about you.”

John sighed, dipped his chin to his chest.

”I'm going to regret this, but do explain.”

”When people kiss each other, it's meant to be pleasant. It's not pleasant when you kiss me.”

And this, this was the worst of all. He'd had no idea. How could he have been so blind?

”Oh fuck I'm sorry, I didn't understand you didn't want to - ”

Sherlock slammed his palm against John's mouth, snarling, his expression furious.

”Shut up, we've already gone through this. I won't repeat myself. But you kiss like your life depends on it.”

And oh. Oh. _Oh_.

”Sherlock.”

”Every time, I might add. So, the logical conclusion is that somehow, it does – _umpfh_!”

John attacked his mouth, plastered himself against Sherlock's already wrinkled shirt, dug the fingers of his right hand deep into the soft dark curls. Not black, in the warm lightning of his room, but dark auburn.

”Did it ever dawn to you - ” he surfaced for a hasty breath before diving right back in, slipping his left thumb between the surprised teeth after his agile tongue, 

”you enormous git,” and Sherlock opened for him, allowed his finger into the humid cavity of his mouth, lapped at it and his tongue in turns, groaning, 

”that I kiss you like this because I _care about you_.” His right hand curled into a firm grip around the silken strands of hair, pushed down, tipping Sherlock's chin up, his mouth still invaded and panting around the kisses, his eyes blown wide and surprised, his nostrils flaring.

An even louder silence engulfed the room. Grey, confused stare. A slow, dazed shake of one consulting head. John slowly slid his thumb out, pressing against that full lower lip as he went. Sherlock gulped audibly.

”No, not really. People usually don't.”

“Then they are all idiots,” John decided and proceeded to show Sherlock just how he should be kissed, and just by whom.

And Sherlock, for once, didn't argue at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story, then please come and visit my Tumblr (tunteeton.tumblr.com) as well!


	16. Through the Eyes of Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're jumping to an OC's point of view for the duration of this chapter, but fear not, it won't stick and there's a very good reason for it. Hope it doesn't turn you off!

“Do the cops really imagine we have nothing better to do than give them tours around the lab?” Jamie muttered under his breath during the morning meeting, brandishing his mug of coffee like it was a lethal weapon. “It's not like we have important research and timed experiments to conduct or anything. Idiots.”

“They say there's been a third death,” Kim reminded him. “The sponsors might cut our funding even more if this continues.”

“Yeah, bad for business, people ending up dead,” Jamie mused, staring gloomily at the bottom of his empty mug. “But what're you going to do about it? Ask the killer to stop? I bet if you asked nicely enough he would. The bugger.”

“Catch the murderer,” Alice sighed. “I know you're all busy and stressed about all of this, but let's play ball and hope they leave soon. They're bringing a consultant in today. I don't know what he could discover that the others didn't, but if that means we can all work in peace from now on, well, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah mum,” Jamie chirped, “heard it all before.”

“Answer any questions they have,” Kim rolled his eyes, “even though they don't understand half of the explanations.”

“Be polite, be swift, be smart, we're not teenagers, Alice, we know this stuff!” Becca cut in, leafing through the morning's paper, her red ponytail bobbing as she skimmed one article after another. Alice had done the same earlier, and saw the exact moment she found what she had been looking for. 

”Here it is! _'The police no closer to finding the Sero-serial'._ No wonder they're getting desperate. But a consultant, what's that shit? Who are they going to consult?”

“Not a word of that now,” Alice warned, answering her ringing phone. “They've arrived.”

The harried-looking DI was the first to enter. Alice remembered him from the last time, his tired but competent dominance, a quick temper kept in check by years of experience. She had liked him instantly when they first met, a couple of weeks ago when poor Patricia was found dead. He looked now, if possible, even more sleep-deprived than then.

There were not many faster ways to gather her sympathies these days than lack of sleep and blind pressure from your superiors. She knew a thing or that about those herself.

“Detective inspector Lestrade,” she greeted with an easy smile.

“Doctor Emerson,” he answered, shaking her hand. “These are Sherlock Holmes, our consultant, and doctor John Watson, his -,” here he hesitated, looking back at the two men who had followed him into the room.

“Partner,” said the taller one, the consultant, and gave her a firm handshake. Alice returned it with a polite smile. There was something familiar about this man, something she couldn't quite place. But his sharp eyes and cultured voice woke some memory in her, if only she could pinpoint it. Nothing more was forthcoming, however, and she turned to greet the doctor.

Solidly built man with a calm expression, confident gait. It took Alice a moment to understand what exactly stood in front of her, but when the bells rang, she felt her eyes widen. Oh my. Wasn't that something? She more felt than heard Jamie behind her, giving a low, almost subsonic whistle. So he had caught it, too, then. Of course he had. The others wouldn't be far behind.

This might be a problem.

Alice was a scientist, an expert of her field, and that had given her a way of seeing certain things which weren't immediately obvious to others. She had sat and later lectured through thousands of hours in conferences, planned therapies, wrote even books about her subject of interest: the psychology of dominance and submission. She recognised the subconscious patterns that people employed in a strange company to find their place in the evolving hierarchy. There were the small glances to figure out the established power groups, the holding of gazes between dominants, the placating steps of the submissives. They were small things, daily things, happening in all the places where two or more people met for the first time. They were everywhere and so went unseen by those who weren't actively looking for them.

Alice was always looking.

She could tell that the detective inspector was a dominant with about as much as presence as she herself had. He had acknowledged her established dominance here, but was ready to take the lead if it was needed for his case. The consultant, however, was a submissive, but just barely that. His quick glances, agitated movements and tensely squared shoulders spoke of a constant struggle not to overextend his abilities in a mixed company – he was probably allowed a lot of freedom with the people he trusted and had trouble adjusting to more varied situations. A prime client for the team, actually, if they just managed to finish these tests before the rest of the money was withdrawn.

But the doctor, this short man with assured demeanour, didn't give out any of those usual tells. He stepped through the door, acknowledged everybody inside, but bowed down to no one. There was no aggression in him, no needless provocation so typical in the stronger dominants wanting to show off. It was like it didn't even dawn to him that there might be someone with more presence in the room. Alice had met only one person who behaved like that earlier, after those recent riots. He had been with the government, a tall man with eyes like stone drills and a tendency to easily, placidly, tell people exactly what they were to do, say or think about any given thing. His dominance had been overbearing, built like a fortress, every gesture calculated for maximal effect. Even the ridiculous umbrella he had been carrying around hadn't diminished the overall threat of him. After he had left, Alice had needed an hour and a litre of coffee just to get back on her feet. Jamie, poor Jamie, had had to take the rest of the week off. 

Doctor Watson carried himself with the same self-assurance as the Government Man had, but none of the implied danger. He took his place next to the consultant, and the taller man relaxed, let some of that poorly concealed tension melt away from his limbs. Alice realised she was staring just as the consultant – Holmes? – flicked his cold gaze over her and the no doubt gaping team, frowning and taking a step closer to his companion.

“I need to see the laboratory,” he stated with a hard voice and Alice spotted detective inspector Lestrade rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“He means to say please,” doctor Watson added easily, like a parent keeping a child in check, and Holmes shifted on his feet in a barely contained perturbation.

“Yes, that,” he said, lowering his lids. It was intentional, it had to be, a conscious effort. Meekness didn't come easily to that one, but even that bit of acceptance seemed to surprise the detective inspector. Watson, however, stayed calm and steady as if nothing out of ordinary had happened. Was he so used to his _partner's_ struggles that he didn't deem them above his notice?

There was no collar around that long neck, Alice couldn't help but check. Maybe it wasn't like that between them, but she didn't miss the attentive way Holmes fluttered next to the doctor, the little glances he kept on throwing at his direction. Looking for approval, or taking his cues, she couldn't tell, and couldn't bring herself to care. If she was standing next to a man like that, being mostly ignored, she'd be willing to do a lot for a bit of attention as well.

Alice hid a smile as she hurried to open the security doors which led to their working space. Holmes breezed in as soon as the doors slid open, with Watson on his heels and the detective inspector, Alice and her team tagging behind, all of them in various states of surprise.

“Did you see that? Did you _see_ that?” Jamie whispered furiously into her ear and she had to shush him before he got any more excited. A brief glance told her that the rest of her team weren't doing much better: Becca stared at the doctor with a glazed expression and Kim looked intimidated enough to fall on his knees if anyone as much as sneezed. Next to her, Jamie was practically vibrating.

“I wonder if -,” he started, sounding a bit breathless.

“No,” Alice told him, her brain magicking up ways to end that sentence, each direr than the last one. Oh shit, she had to contain this before something catastrophic would happen. They couldn't afford for him to take another week off. Better to keep him busy, not thinking about it. “Go and prepare Monday's cultures for their round in the radiation. We'll have to get them done before midday, and I don't know how long this is going take.”

Doctor Watson decided to choose that moment to come and chat with her. Jamie let out a little squeak and escaped from the room, Kim fast on his heels. Holmes buzzed around the lab, poking at things which really didn't need being poked at, the DI was talking with Becca, and Alice found herself alone with the imposing doctor Watson. She bit back the urge to drop a curtsey.

_You're a dominant, for God's sakes, behave!_

It was bizarre that a man like that could have such a short stature. He stood eye to eye with her and spoke in courteous tones about their research. The contrast with that another super-dominant couldn't have been more apparent. She answered mechanically, telling about the sponsors, the history behind Seropidol, her father's hopes for it and finally, the reaction of the press and the public, part of it encouraging, but most condemning. As if by some unspoken contract, neither of them mentioned the murders. It was almost pleasant, in a horrified way.

How could a person like this be real?

“It must be very stressful to lead such a controversial project,” Watson finally concluded, and Alice felt her spirits crash. So much for trying outrun Father for even the duration of one conversation.

“In fact,” she said, biting back the emotion in her voice, “it didn't start out as my project. I'm surprised you didn't know.”

Watson shook his head, gave her a questioning look.

“It was my father's brainchild,” Alice explained. “George Acker?”

_He has a very expressive face. Probably never had any reason to hide what he felt,_ she thought as the hateful sympathy materialised on the doctor's face. She had had personal disagreements with Father, but remembering him still hurt. Seeing the pain reflected on other people's expressions just rubbed the fact in, that maybe she should have cared more. After all, there had been more tears from his – her – team than from herself. Maybe, if she had been a more dutiful daughter, things would have turned out otherwise.

Maybes and ifs. The two most repellent words in any language.

“Oh yes,” Watson said grimly, “the second victim. I'm sorry I couldn't connect you. The surname threw me. My deepest condolences.”

“I should change it back anyway.” It slipped out of her mouth. Concentration was difficult when a man with such a presence stood in front of her and the face of Father haunted her memories. But it was true, too. They hadn't separated in the best of terms with Timothy, and she hadn't heard a peep from him in nearly a week. The way he had left, she didn't honestly expected to ever hear of him again. It was probably for the best, anyway. She had enough on her plate even without his histrionics.

“Oh?”

She shrugged. “We're separated. Timothy didn't agree with my work here.”

It had been more than that, but she felt no need to dig any deeper to the mess that was their married life. It wasn't any of his business anyway. Watson, however, seemed unwilling to let her comment just go.

“Did he have trouble with the ethical side of the research?”

“Oh nay,” she smiled, remembering Tim's intrigue when she first broached the subject. At times, she had even toyed with the idea he'd be willing to be one of the testers himself. But well, that wouldn't happen now, with how the things stood between them. “Monetary.”

“Money,” Watson grimaced ruefully, “the great divider.”

“Practically all of our funds come from private sponsors,” Alice explained, happy to move the discussion away from Timothy. “It's an unsure existence at best. The media coverage helped, even if a lot of it was negative. People are interested in what we are trying to achieve here, and Father knew how to be persuasive. But then Patricia was killed, and then Father, and now this third one. We've had a couple of the other prominent sponsors withdraw already. If we lose any more, the whole project may have to be abandoned. So we must rush things, get results out ahead of schedule. We need some positive reports, and we need them fast.”

“It must be a very stressful time for you,” Watson murmured. Alice let out a dry laugh.

“This is science, it's always like this. Well, usually with less bodies.”

Watson gave her a surprised glance, and then burst out laughing. It was a rich sound, almost boyish in its delight, and it filled the cold laboratory with a sudden outpour of happiness. They had led a solemn existence down here during the last month, and Alice couldn't help but feel the corners of her mouth turning upwards at that contagious sound. Such a compelling person, this doctor Watson.

The unexpected laughter also brought Holmes to them, his restless gaze jumping between the two of them, suspicious at her, almost possessive at Watson. Again, that strange feeling of almost-recognition came over her. The name. There was something about that name, and the way the man talked.

“John?” He asked, and somehow managed to pronounce the simple word as if it had at least five syllables more. Watson turned to look at him, his expression fond.

“Doctor Emerson was explaining to me how their funding works,” he said, not catching the glare Holmes sent her way.

“Such an amusing topic,” the consultant muttered and plastered himself at Watson's side. The doctor accepted this as if it happened every day, and judging by the frown the detective inspector was giving behind their backs, it maybe did. Alice stomped her grin ruthlessly down. So she wasn't the only one observing things, then.

But really, who could blame Holmes? What would it be like, walking down the streets with a partner like that, totally fearless and safe? Knowing, without a doubt, that here was someone who would take care of things if a need rose, if the young doms got raunchy, if some criminal troubles broke out. Or just to calm down that whirring mind (because she could see the agitation in him, the forced steadiness which erupted into uneasy fidgeting when he thought no one was looking), who could just say a word and make it all stop for a moment. What would it be like to have all that promise just standing there, apparently oblivious to the intensity he was being appraised with, fighting tooth and nail to not just reach out and take?

Because there was no taking with a man like that, a man who could send you sprawling with hardly a word uttered. A man who, despite all his smiles and politeness, was really quite terrifying under the smooth surface. The power he easily held in his compact body was in direct comparison with his approachable demeanour, his well-worn clothes. A man who could, in a second, turn into the most shattering dominant anyone would ever land their eyes on. Holmes, nearly a dominant himself, was drawn in, playing with the fire, incapable of stopping.

Such fascination Alice could understand, and even now find all around herself.

Jamie had seen doctor Watson for all of ten minutes, and he was ready to worship the ground he walked on. Kim would have the squiggles for the rest of the day. Becca was fast getting even bristlier than usual. And Alice herself, a dominant of some standing, felt the promise of tranquillity slashed with the demand for total submission around the doctor. Even the DI seemed to stand straighter near him. So who, indeed, could blame Holmes?

In the middle of the eye of this particular storm stood this small doctor, chortling still, when his phone beeped. Holmes' eyes flew to his pocket, his face paling. Competition, maybe? Watson flipped the phone on to read the message. It was one of those shiny new models, basically a palm computer, and so fresh it still had the plastic cover on the screen. He frowned.

“Sherlock? Are we done here? Your brother wants to meet me.”

Holmes' face was a study in boredom, too masterfully crafted to be anything else than fabrication. Alice watched on, fascinated. Brothers? That could become messy.

“Only you? It must be about his little shadow army, then. Go on and tell him we're busy until the end of the time.” He flicked his coat collar up, aiming for a dramatic look, but Watson fumbled with his phone, his concentration elsewhere. Maybe the brother was winning, then?

“Don't be daft, Sherlock. I'll go and meet him in the evening. You know he always gets what he wants in the end.”

“Mycroft can go rot,” Holmes mumbled, and the line finally connected in Alice's brain.

Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. The second-scariest man she had ever met. (Watson won by the virtue of not trying.) The Government man, the ice-cold dominant with the damn umbrella. He was Sherlock's brother?

Oh boy, the issues this man must have.

Maybe she shouldn't complain quite as much about Timothy after all.


	17. Solutions

Sherlock was silent on the ride home, leaving John to stare at the passing streets of not-his-London through the dirty cab window. It was bizarre, still, to see all the familiar signs and landmarks, and know that it wasn't home. Even more bizarre was the idea that only some years ago, another John Watson had walked these streets, seen the same buildings and the same people. What had he been like? So far, the people he had met had acted mostly as he expected them to. Would he have been the same, too? He'd never know.

John hoped his death in Afghanistan had been a quick one, that he hadn't had the blasted time to pray. Maybe he hadn't even known, gone in a blink of an eye. No scorching sun this time, no heat stroke, no crippling bullet hole. It would have been so much better. 

But everything couldn't be the same. If John had died, _when_ he had died, on that ambush near the Kajaki Dam, he couldn't have returned to London. He never met Mike, nor Sherlock. He never saved Sherlock from Jeff Hope's machinations.

Which could only mean one thing.

Sherlock had taken the damn pill. He could have died. The idiot could have died, leaving him all alone here. He could have returned to Baker Street, to an oblivious Mrs Hudson, not understanding a thing until it was all too late.

Unless -

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” The detective asked.

“Does the name Jeff Hope mean anything to you?”

Sherlock gave him a suspicious look, a fast glance from behind his fringe of curls. His eyes had returned to the window by the time he spoke.

“Should it?”

“Serial suicides? That one was all over the papers. The victims were forced to choose between two pills, only one of which Hope claimed to be poisonous. It was the first case we – solved – together.”

Sherlock turned to follow someone the cab was passing by, his movements stiff and defensive.

“I haven't been on a case like that. Can't remember any headlines either.” John shook his head in disbelief.

“But it was less than two years ago!”

Sherlock just shrugged, continued to stare at the streets and buildings outside. They were close to Baker Street already, and John settled back against the plastic seat with a sigh. It didn't make any sense. No Hope? Why no Hope, if everything else was more or less the same? Had he changed something by popping up here? But no, it couldn't have been because of him. Hope had been active long before he got his sorry, self-pitying arse out of the bedsit. That was history by now. 

What had been Hope's motivation, again? Hadn't he been drawn to Sherlock through his website? Maybe the answer lay there.

“You do run that website, don't you? The Science of Deduction?”

“I do.” It was spoken to the window, the woollen greatcoat forming a veritable wall between them even in the crowded back seat of the cab. John frowned. It wasn't unusual that Sherlock was quiet after getting more information about a case, but this was something more. He was still in a very un-sherlockian way, hiding inside the Belstaff and refusing to meet his eyes. What had him in such a strop? John would have to figure it out later, when this particular bone had been gnawed dry.

“Get a lot of hits?”

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.

“What?”

The cab turned to Baker Street and Sherlock fled it, leaving John to pay as usual. By the time he was standing on the pavement, the detective had already disappeared inside 221, taking the stairs three at a time. And when John had got in, left his coat hanging and stepped into the kitchen, Sherlock was hunched over his microscope, two vials on the table before him. They hadn't been there when they had left.

John had lived with him long enough to know what was going on. That explained the silence in the cab. Sherlock's mind had been on those blasted vials. He went and flicked the water boiler on. It was too late to protest now.

“And what's going to happen when they notice you nicked those?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock answered, too busy to adjust the slides to even raise his head. “They won't, not before next week anyway.”

That made John stop on his tracks.

“Fuck, what else did you do? You know it's me who's going to hang for this.” Lestrade had made that clear first thing in the morning, when they had met outside New Scotland Yard.

“I don't want to see him wearing the patches, but you're responsible for his behaviour,” the DI had warned. Sherlock had stood right next to them, looking bored and, somehow, not at all sleep-deprived despite last night's – activities. And then he had gone and stolen the drug anyway, and who knew what else.

Thanks a lot, Sherlock.

“I didn't do a thing,” Sherlock answered irritably, “but the individual known as Jamie spilled some ephedrine sulphate all over their spectrophotometry in the back room. It's going to take them a while to get it back to working condition. I don't think they're going to have spare time for counting samples. I left a plenty.”

“Oh right,” John said weakly, “that's all right, then. When did you even have time for this?”

“I had plenty of time,” Sherlock drawled, lowering the lens, “when everybody was ogling you.”

The kettle boiled. John went through the familiar, oft-rehearsed motions of preparing tea, a cup for the both of them, shaking his head at his friend's absurd statement.

“Of course they weren't ogling me,” he protested, “why would they?”

He knew what it was like, standing next to Sherlock bloody Holmes. It was like he was out with some television star or something. Yes, the heads turned, but not because of John Watson, medical doctor, former captain of RAMC, the short friend. Sherlock took advantage, gleefully told so to anyone who cared to listen. It wasn't John who gathered the interest. Never had been and never would be.

“Your inability to observe astounds me,” Sherlock stated unhelpfully and then shushed his protests, concentrating on the colourful drops of fluid on the slides. John left the extra cup to be ignored on the table and returned to the living room, trying to make sense of the case.

Apart from Sherlock's indulging in petty theft, John thought the visit had gone well enough. No one had been yelled at. Lestrade was still DI. John still had his balls (Lestrade's other threat.) The research team's single-minded determination to finish their work even in the middle of a serial killer investigation boggled his mind. They felt strongly about their work, that had become clear when Sherlock had interviewed them, one after another. All of them were pale, tired but steadfast. They'd lost their leader, their credibility and their sponsors, and still they pushed through, defiant in the face of opposition. He had hard time believing any of them could have anything to do with the murders. They seemed to be the type that probably even slept in the lab to maximise their working time.

In the kitchen, Sherlock let out a victorious a-ha.

John took out his phone, read once again the text message Mycroft had sent earlier. Quite soon he became aware of the waiting presence some feet away and smiled fondly, if secretly, at his phone. “Do share.”

Sherlock didn't need telling twice.

“I had a chance to take a closer look at their research while everybody was distracted by you. _Don't_ interrupt now. They had many versions of the drug stored away, and I confiscated the latest one.”

“Confiscated?”

“I'm sure Lestrade would agree with me if only he knew,” Sherlock replied airily before continuing. “There was, however, another one which caught my eye. It was kept separate from the others, the first finished sample. From a very interesting date.” He gestured at the other vial while speaking. “That one. Produced a day before the first murder. The last one left of that batch. So I – appropriated it as well.”

“I see,” John sighed. “And now that you've broken who knows how many laws, what did you find out?”

“They're remarkably different,” Sherlock answered, ignoring John's reproval. “Different enough to cast some light into the murders, even. Quit your useless obligations and come over here. You have to see this.”

John stuffed the phone into his pocket and did as he was told. Sherlock on a roll was always a sight to behold. The fact that he had got there by ethically dubious means didn't make that sight any less arresting. He had been down for so long, rebuked, getting nowhere with the case, that John didn't have it in himself to hold a grudge.

“Okay, what am I looking at?” John asked, coming to stand next to Sherlock and peeking at the slides. Resting a palm on his sitting flatmate's right shoulder seemed like the easiest thing in the world to do, and he indulged. Sherlock, high on the wings of his revelation, didn't seem to notice, or care. The drop of fluid on one slide had a distinctly greenish tint, while the other specimen had turned into a light pink colour.

“Acidity,” Sherlock answered. “The older sample here is quite far on the acidic part of the scale with the pH less than five. But this newer one,” he gestured at the green slide, “is alkaline, base. My tests aren't precise, but I'd estimate it's at least nine. Now, neither of those values are dangerous in themselves, obviously, but isn't it interesting that it's changed it so much? Something else must have been going on as well.”

“Keep going.” He massaged the convenient shoulder while listening, his left palm soaking greedily in the offered warmth.

“They thought they had a ready product already with this one,” Sherlock explained, pointing at the pink slide. “There were huge articles about it in the papers, all those riots which my brother so enjoyed. But Patricia Rey died, as a result of being given that version of the drug. Something was clearly wrong. So they took another look at it, started the experiment again.”

“But George Acker died, too,” John pointed out. “And he was given the same solution.”

“Not necessarily the same,” Sherlock mused. “There were two weeks between the killings. Time enough to produce a different sample. And these things might behave differently from one individual to another, even though they both were dominants. It's hard to say, and I didn't find a third specimen from that time. Also, you're forgetting that his cause of death was not poisoning but mugging. The drug merely weakened him so that he couldn't fight back.”

“Such a shame,” John muttered, but Sherlock had already continued on with his explanation.

“It seems to me, judging by the difference between these two solutions, that they found out what the problem was. They changed the formula. For some reason, they didn't publish their findings.”

“Bad publicity,” John suggested. “Doctor Emerson was very worried about the sponsors withdrawing from the project. They probably wanted to downplay their research's part on Rey's death.”

Sherlock shrugged. “That's quite short-sighted, if you ask me.”

“And doctor Emerson had just lost her father. She had other things on her mind.”

Another shrug. There would be no sympathy for the lax approach to science from Sherlock's direction.

“Anyway. They had a new, more successful version of the drug in their hands. Somehow, Allister Merritt ended up with it in his possession. He wasn't injected with it – he tried it out by himself. Remember, there were no signs of struggle on the body before the attack. The drug didn't kill him.”

“He was beaten to death,” John provided. “Just like George Acker.”

“So he was. Maybe the drug worked, maybe he got cocky, maybe he just ran into bad company.”

“But all of this doesn't bring us any closer to finding the killer. Or killers, if Merritt's case is separate from the others,” John pointed out.

“There must be some link between the research team and Merritt,” Sherlock accepted. “Rey was a sponsor, that's her link right there. Acker is an even clearer case. But Merritt, what's his connection? It could be the key to this whole puzzle.”

“Do you think the killer is part of the team?” 

John didn't say aloud what he was thinking, that he couldn't believe it. Sherlock didn't put much value to people's guts, not unless they were sprawling all around the floor and soiling other people's shoes.

“Insufficient data,” Sherlock answered. “I won't speculate. But they didn't seem to be afraid when I talked to them. Just intimidated.”

“Intimidated?” John repeated, frowning. “What could they be intimidated about?”

Sherlock, for some reason, snorted. “What indeed, John,” he answered, as if that made things any clearer. John shrugged. It wasn't the first time he didn't understand his friend's vague insinuations, and it wouldn't be the last either. Better to concentrate on the case. What did they know about Merritt?

“You said earlier, in the morgue, that he had some criminal connections.”

“Trivial,” Sherlock answered, eyeing the coloured slides. “He was the most boring type of small-time thug. Dumb and lacking in imagination. Missed his girlfriend and kept up appearances with his mother. Couldn't come up with this sort of thing, he worried too much. No, we must dig deeper.”

“Oh.” John thought for a moment. “What about the tattoo?”

Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look.

“Yes, of course. He had a nauseatingly cute little tattoo of fluffy kittens playing with yarn on his left triceps, circled by an insipid poem about soft kitties and balls of fur. Clearly it will solve this whole mystery. How didn't I think about it by myself earlier?” If the sarcasm in Sherlock's voice became any stronger, it would grow feet and hurl itself at John's face.

“Just trying to give you some ideas,” he defended himself, smiling at the expression in Sherlock's face when he pronounced the word 'fluffy'. It was like he was forced to stomach something poisonous, and disgusting. 

“Well don't,” Sherlock answered, looking back at the green slide. “But this stuff is really interesting. The way it works. I wish I could study it further.”

“Call doctor Emerson,” John suggested. “Tell her that you stole her work, and would like to have some more of it. I'm sure it's going to go down splendidly. But, Sherlock,” a thought struck him, one that he'd had earlier, returned now at full force.

“Yes, John?”

John turned him around, his hands on the bony shoulders. He wanted to see his friend's face, to actually understand the answer to the question he was about to ask. Sherlock stared at him, still sitting, holding his slides, surprised. Was this impolite? He had no idea, but then again, neither usually had Sherlock.

“If stuff like Seropidol became commercially available,” John started, peeking carefully at the grey eyes, “would you take it?”

Sherlock frowned. “You mean, would I want to change the fundamentals of what I am?”

John nodded, miserable. When Sherlock put it that way, it became painfully personal, something he should have left in peace. But then Sherlock smiled at him, the crinkles around his eyes not unhappy but content.

“No, John. I don't have a problem with myself. It's the other people who seem to hold a grudge.”

“Oh,” John sighed out, “that's – good. I'm happy.” And he was, relieved beyond measure. Sherlock gave him a tender smile, reached out, and gently kissed the exhalation from his lips. It was soft, and calm, and John could still feel the smile on his skin. Sherlock's mouth moved lazily, aimlessly over his own, and just like that, his heart felt lighter. There was a hand on the base of his neck, keeping him down, as Sherlock took his time in tasting him.

“I was worried,” John admitted into the kiss an undefined amount of minutes later. 

“It's all right,” Sherlock murmured, and John wasn't sure what he meant. It didn't matter, anyway. As far as he was concerned, everything was all right as long as this continued. But then he was let go, as the warm shine of Sherlock's eyes became inquisitiveness once again. 

“But it is remarkable, what this stuff is capable of doing,” Sherlock said, glancing at John. “I wonder if - -”

John took three quick steps backwards. He knew that look. Oh no. Not again.

“No Sherlock. I won't poison myself to satisfy your scientific curiosity. Forget it.”

“But - -”

“No. Not going to happen.” The warm fuzzy feeling of the kiss dissipated rapidly. Living with Sherlock Holmes: from bliss to dread in two seconds flat. 

“It's statistically probable that you'd experience some nausea at most,” Sherlock muttered rebelliously. John made a mental note to keep an eye on his drinks from then on. Sherlock had promised, earlier, that he wouldn't, but still, this was _him_. John remembered too well the puppy-eyed look and the mug of coffee in Devon – a peace offering turned just another experiment. The man hadn't ever really grasped that he had done something wrong. John had learned his lesson. Standing between Sherlock and his research could turn hazardous very fast indeed.

“If you somehow managed to forget, three people are dead. Do you actively want to pump up the amount of casualties?”

“Only the first one died because of the drug,” Sherlock replied, flippant. “Haven't you been listening?”

“But I don't even have those weird-ass genes! Who the hell knows what would happen if I took the drug?”

Sherlock's eyes glowed in the harsh light of their kitchen in a disconcertingly gleeful way. “Exactly! That's why it'd be so fascinating to see the results! Please, John. I'm sure I've got the first aid kit here somewhere. Just in case, you understand.”

“That's it,” John told him, marching back to the living room to get his coat. “I'm out of here.”

Sherlock abandoned the slices, alarmed. A couple of long strides took him next to John, fingers curled around his arm.

“Where are you going?”

John gave him a tense smile.

“I'm changing my Holmes. Your brother seems like a much better option just now.”

Sherlock groaned, but let go of his hold. “You can't be serious. He wants you to become his minion.”

John buttoned the coat up.

“Yeah, and you want me to poison myself willingly. Mycroft's offer suddenly seems rather good, in comparison.”

“You're going to change your mind, just you wait and see,” Sherlock predicted darkly. John gave him a quick wave and walked down the stairs. Now that had gone smoother than he had hoped.

–

_Come and pick me up._

The trademark black car arrived in less than five minutes. Mycroft must have had the driver lurking just around the corner. John stepped in, reading once again the short text the elder Holmes had sent him in the morning.

_Need to meet you. Urgent news. Don't alarm my dearest brother. MH_

In Mycroft's language, that could mean anything from the end of the world to his cake supplies running low. But the plead not to tell Sherlock worried John. What weird concoctions was Mycroft cooking now, and what did they have to do with him?

John had never been very good at walking away from danger.

“Drive faster, please,” he told the suit-clad minion behind the wheel. The man accelerated without wasting a second. In the back seat, John licked his lips and imagined he could still taste Sherlock there.

And on the window of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes stood and watched the black car disappear into the traffic, a phone raised against his ear. The line connected.

“Is this Mary Morstan?” He asked when a female voice answered. “Excellent. My name is Sherlock Holmes. We need to talk.”


	18. A Seriously Upsetting Matter

The gloomy basement room from which Mycroft Holmes absolutely didn't rule all of England (and then some) remained unchanged, even in this different universe. John made a slow circle in the middle of the carpet, marvelling at the ruler-drawn lines of books and immaculately placed office wares.

“Whoa,” he decided, “that's just – whoa. It hasn't changed a bit. It's actually kind of scary. Even 221B isn't geometrically this correct. The logs, you know. They keep on burning away.”

Mycroft stared at him, impassive behind his huge desk. “Surely it's unnecessary to inform you about the fact that you've never been here before.”

“Of course I have,” John replied. “You forget I live with your brother. He used to send me here all the time when he couldn't be bothered to get up from the sofa. That's often enough. You keep your glasses in the top right drawer.”

“I don't need spectacles,” Mycroft told him with an icy cold voice, his eyes studiously kept away from said drawer.

“Of course you don't,” John smiled, all indulgence, and flopped down to the visitor chair. Mycroft leaned on the leather-padded desk, his fingers crossed under his chin, his expression one of pure distaste.

“I see you've chosen to believe my brother's crack theory. How unsurprising.”

“It's either that or I've got the world's most detailed hallucinations,” John told him cheerfully. The situation might be fucked up beyond repair, but he'd be damned if he gave Mycroft Holmes any more ammunition than the man already possessed. Smile and flick it off. Just smile and flick it off.

“And you haven't – remembered anything more about your visit to Afghanistan?” A slight nod of his neck, as calculated as the hint of sympathy in his voice.

John frowned. “What's there to remember? I was shipped out, I fought in the war, I patched people up, I got shot. I know what happened there.”

“I see,” Mycroft grimaced, shrugging. “But that's actually not the reason I called you here.”

“I hope not,” John answered. “We were in the middle of a rather interesting case. You said you've got some urgent news. Dunno how I could help, but do spill.”

“Yes, the Seropidol incident,” Mycroft acknowledged and John failed to be at all surprised that Mycroft would know what they were up to. “It's quite unfortunate, isn't it? The odds about that drug ever seeing the light of the day couldn't be much worse. But I suppose congratulations are in order anyway.”

Now that felt suspicious. John narrowed his eyes.

“About what?”

“About managing to wiggle my brother free of the superintendent's dictate, of course,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Why? Is there something _else_ I should congratulate you about?”

“No, I don't think so,” John answered, heart racing. Did Mycroft know? It was Mycroft, after all. He probably did.

He almost certainly did.

Who was John kidding?

Of course he did.

“I should hope that's the case. I so worry about Sherlock,” Mycroft said, busily leafing through an unremarkable notebook. It was empty, even John could see that from the other side of the desk. He gave up.

“Is this the 'break his heart' discussion? Because we kind of had that already.”

“I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about,” Mycroft replied, still judging the empty notebook. “But I feel the sudden need to inform you that I control no less than an armada of lawyers, two wings of the military and more agents than you have self-worth issues. But I only have one little brother.”

“I hear you,” John answered weakly. There was probably a cutting retort to this, somewhere, but the horror that was coming out to Mycroft Holmes ate away all other thoughts.

Driven to speechlessness: Holmes – Watson. 1 – 0. Damn.

“I'm pleased that we understand each other,” Mycroft told the damn notebook, a thin smile on his lips, before flicking it open at a seemingly random page. There was a photo between the pages, black and white and sickeningly familiar. John went from one shock to another in a blink of an eye.

“Where's the fucker?” He demanded. “Tell me you've got him contained somewhere.”

“So you recognise this gentleman, then?” Mycroft asked, almost demure now after having won that first round.

“That's no fucking gentleman,” John answered, appalled. “That's Jim Bloody Moriarty, and if you let him get anywhere near Sherlock you're an ever bigger dick than I gave you credit for.”

“Oh,” Mycroft said, interested. “And what exactly would happen if they met?”

“Bodies,” John replied instantly. “It's the weirdest fucking courtship I've ever witnessed. Explosions. Murders. Counter-murders. That guy is insane, in a medically-certified way. Just look at his fucking _eyes_.”

In the photograph, Jim Moriarty sneered in his faultless Westwood suit, showing off way too many teeth and almost no irises at all. His huge black pupils stood out even in the monochrome picture, his hair sleek and his eyebrows manicured. It was a perfect photo of madness, and John could smell chlorine just looking at it.

“Do explain,” Mycroft started, his expression intense, his eyes roaming all over John's face, “how you can possibly know this man. Met him in Afghanistan?”

John, still trapped in that black stare, took a moment to process the question.

“What? No! I've only met him a couple of times, here – I mean there – in London. He was Sherlock's – well, he called himself a fan.”

“A fan,” Mycroft repeated, his voice dull.

“I'd say a stalker with a crush. A homicidal stalker with a crush. Kidnapped people just to show off. Blew up whole buildings. Threatened children. This guy has no boundaries, Mycroft. I'm telling you, he's completely out of his mind. So I ask again, do you have him contained somewhere?”

“He recently showed up,” Mycroft started, still staring at John intently.

“Well go and get him! You just told me how many operatives you've got. You want to keep England safe, you hold this guy.”

“In Afghanistan,” the elder Holmes added, and John's heart sank. “There was an – explosion, in one of our field bases. Almost forty soldiers went missing. Only a couple made it back to Kandahar, and they could only give us the name.”

“Moriarty,” John whispered, terrified. Not here, too. Not this. Not again. 

Mycroft's face hardened.

“So whatever happened to you, doctor Watson, whatever non-disclosure agreements you've been made to sign, now would be an extremely good moment to come clean. What. Happened. In Afghanistan?”

“Nothing. I told you. I'm not – whatever it is you think I am, I'm not.”

Mycroft grimaced in a painful way that reminded John of root canals, but that only brought him back to the Game, and that wasn't a thought he wanted to entertain any longer. 

“I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that I find that hard to stomach. And now you know about James Moriarty, too. What's a minor government official to think?”

“That I'm telling the truth,” John answered with conviction. “I know you keep the tabs on Sherlock. You know what's going on. You'd know if I was in contact with that criminal son of a bitch.”

“So far, you haven't been,” Mycroft accepted. “And I thank you for continuing to use the phone I gifted you – and for not breaking it again.”

John swore. “You know, it's a sure sign I hate the fucker that I don't even care you've put me under surveillance for this. I'm not sure what you think he's up to down there, but Moriarty is a nasty piece of nastiness. Whatever it is, he must be stopped. And! Kept away from Sherlock. I can't stress this enough, Mycroft. Moriarty must not learn about Sherlock.”

Mycroft nodded. “I think we're in agreement there. Although I'm a bit unsure why he would be so interested in him in the first place.”

“He fancies they're similar,” John said, his tone dangerous. “A consulting criminal for his consulting detective. It's some kind of dark mirroring clusterfuckery.”

Mycroft Holmes knew his brother. “And Sherlock?” He asked. “Supposing your ridiculous fabrication were the actual truth?”

John grinned. “Thanks for giving me the benefit of doubt.” But soon his grin faded, when he remembered Sherlock in the madness of the Game.

“He thinks it's fascinating, that he's _elegant_. Or at least he used to think so.”

“What happened?” Mycroft asked, folding his fingers together again, the photo left on the table between them.

“Moriarty took me,” John answered through a tight throat. Mycroft sat immediately straighter.

“I knew it! What did he do to you? John, what did he do?”

It wasn't concern in his voice, but eagerness. John wanted to slam his fist against something hard, preferably Mycroft's nose, but the table would also do. Damn Holmeses and their attraction to insane madmen in expensive suits.

“The same he did to everyone else,” he however answered, keeping his temper in short leash. Erupting here wouldn't do him any favours. “Put me in a Semtex vest and stole my voice. Played a merry little twisted game with Sherlock. Threatened to kill us all. Got distracted by a damn phone call, of all things.”

On the other side of the table, Mycroft deflated again. Had he been hoping for some kind of grand confession? If so, he'd be waiting for a long time.

But John still remembered that horrible night so well, heading out for Sarah's only to wake up in an unfamiliar room with a pounding headache, a giggling madman and a tonne of explosives. The waiting. And Sherlock, suddenly just a man, flashing through horror, betrayal and, finally, acceptance. Preparing to die, to sacrifice them both to stop Moriarty. The limping anticlimax that was the phone call. And, the last insult to injury, Irene Adler. But that meant - -

“Are you saying,” he realised, “that Bond Air never happened here? The flight of the dead?”

A ruffled peacock had nothing on Mycroft Holmes, shooting him an injured glance.

“That information is strictly classified,” he muttered, and that expression, the one John had spied just for a second, that had to be surprise.

He had surprised Mycroft bloody Holmes. Time to press his advantage.

“Having hard time pushing that off? Just delusions of my failing mind, are they now?” He asked. “I've been telling you, and telling you, but you wouldn't believe. You wouldn't believe even Sherlock. Tell me, how many times has he been wrong?”

“More often than I have,” Mycroft snapped back, but there was some reconsideration in his voice.

“I can help you with Moriarty,” John tried. “Believe me, I know what he's capable of. But you have to trust me. It really is how Sherlock says.”

Mycroft leaned back. “And you've just accepted that, have you?”

John shrugged. “What else could I do? These things don't exactly come with a return ticket. I have to adapt, or I'll go bonkers.”

“Yes, that's what I'm worried about,” Mycroft replied, but some decision had been made. He gave John the notebook and a pen, and told him to write down everything he knew about Moriarty, his associates, his movements, his modus operandi, the way he liked his coffee, anything at all. John settled down to think, and to write, and finally felt useful. In a way, it was like he had found the way home. To be seen like this was almost giddy. He decided to make the best of it.

An hour later, a cup of coffee was placed on his right.

“Thanks, Anthea,” he mumbled, too busy to raise his eyes from the notebook.

A silence filled the room.

“I don't think we have met,” Anthea offered carefully. John spared her a quick smile.

“Well we have now,” he answered and went back to thinking about Janus Cars. Was it Bolivia? Or Columbia? How the hell was he supposed to remember these things?

He wasn't allowed to concentrate for long, however.

“You asked for a benefit of doubt,” Mycroft said suddenly, his voice strained. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's granted.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to remember the Botox killer's name. Ralph? No. Raoul. Raoul something de something. “And shut up. I'm trying to think here.”

“Yes, that can be rather taxing,” Mycroft replied, but there wasn't any vitriol in his voice.

John kept on writing.

–

“Irene Adler?” Mycroft asked later with a frown. “She's associated with him? That's weird.”

John shrugged. He was just a blogger. The Holmeses could analyse all they wanted, John would write things down as they happened.

A moment later, Mycroft read the relevant line. John could tell by the way his eyes bulged.

“Buckingham Palace? A _sheet_?”

He didn't even try to hide his grin. “You had about the same reaction then,” he answered, basking in the memory. It was good to know that Sherlock could always scandalise his older brother.

“I'm surprised you let him get away with it,” Mycroft answered, his voice petulant.

“Well, I wasn't there to protest,” John replied, “given that I was flown in from Wales, where I was inspecting a suspected murder scene. Your agents had to handle him all by themselves.”

Mycroft groaned. John had never heard a more honest sound come out of him.

Driven to speechlessness: Holmes – Watson. 1 – 1. A draw.

He'd take that any day against either of them.

–

The living room and the kitchen were empty when he opened the door to the flat. He heard the sound of running water from the bathroom, however. So Sherlock was taking a shower, then. A bit unusual, since it was still quite early, but the detective wasn't known for his habit of staring at the clock anyway.

More unusual was the fact that the bathroom door was left wide open. John froze in the kitchen, unsure about his standing here all of a sudden.

Yes, they had been kissing. It had been very, very nice. But apart from some mild groping, nothing else had happened. He had been too stuck in his own head, his senses confused as soon as his eyes were closed and the sensations took over, terrified of the idea of fucking things up. Of, somehow, cheating on Sherlock by thinking about – the other Sherlock. If that were even possible.

It made no sense, neither inside his head nor spoken aloud, but Sherlock had understood, had given him some space. He hadn't been happy about it, however. John could still remember the growl in his voice, the unmissable bulge of his crotch pressed against him. The ease with which he had given himself over to be kissed, the acceptance of John's fingers inside his mouth.

No, Sherlock had definitely not been happy about John's little crisis, but he had accepted it.

But now the man was standing naked, only some feet away from him. And the door, the moral wall of John's objections, was open. Was it an invitation? Or had Sherlock thought that he'd be out for longer, that the door didn't matter?

John couldn't imagine a universe where Sherlock Holmes taking a shower with the door left open wouldn't matter to him.

“Sherlock?” He called out, hating the clear question in his voice. There was no answer.

He tiptoed closer, and when he caught himself doing that he stopped, swore, and marched straight at the door, knocking with his knuckles, his face averted.

“Sherlock?”

Still no answer, but the faucet was turned off. And it wasn't before the noise stopped that John understood that it wasn't the shower after all, but the tap.

So probably not naked then. He peeked in, and

_blood wound Sherlock oh God oh fuck where is he hurt shirtless ribs stomach collar bones blood THERE!_

Sherlock's arm, the left one, the one currently cradled against his side, had already bled through the bandage he had tried himself to fasten there, probably using his teeth in lieu with the other hand. It hadn't really worked.

John was by his side in a second, taking in the pallid shade of his face and the forced, self-deprecating smile. A little push was enough to get Sherlock sitting on the toilet lid, and then he was unwrapping the dressing, careful not to scratch at the skin underneath. The detective squirmed unhappily, but didn't exactly fight against these attentions.

“It's all right, I just -,” Sherlock tried, but John shushed him. The man never took any of his injuries seriously. Probably hadn't even washed this one before wrapping it up.

The bandages came off and John dropped them to the floor without another thought. They landed on top of Sherlock's discarded shirt. John didn't have time to think about that, however. He took a look at the wound, not knowing what he had expected to see, but this wasn't it.

”Oh fuck, Sherlock, is that a bullet graze?”

Sherlock gave him a quick, miserable nod, holding the arm awkwardly.

”I went to see Mary.”

To John's mind, this non sequitur didn't ever approach an appropriate explanation. He stooped closer, trying to get a clearer look at the wound. Light, he needed more light! 

”Mary? Mary who? Sherlock, you've been shot! Who the bloody fuck shot at you?”

Wait, there was that assistive light application on his phone, wasn't there? He flicked it on, aimed at the wound. Much better, this way.

”Mary. Your friend Mary.”

”I don't have any friends, I just materialised here a couple of weeks ago! I've been too busy to make any friends! Greg doesn't count, I knew him before.”

John spoke the words as they appeared in his mouth, his attention elsewhere. Clean edges, that was good. The gash was deep enough to bleed profusely, but muscle injury remained minor and the bullet hadn't hit any bones. Considering how little space there was between Sherlock's skin and his bones, that could be counted as some sort of miracle. But he had been correct, of course he had. There was something dark in there, maybe just lint from his clothes, maybe dirt. He cast around for cotton balls, some clear towels, anything he could disinfect and use to clean up the injury. Sherlock pointed at the medicine kit on the floor with his right hand and John fell upon it greedily. Cotton balls, he was sure there were some in here, yes!

He raised up with his loot and took a quick glance at his friend's face. Sherlock seemed pale but not in danger of passing out. He obediently held his arm in place for cleaning, swearing softly when the disinfectant hit the wound. 

”Mary the Librarian? Mary from your world?”

John blinked. What was all this talk about Mary? Surely Sherlock didn't mean - -

”What, Sherlock, are you saying that Mary shot you? But she's -, she's -,” _very pretty_ , he wanted to add. _Of the blonde hair and button nose persuasion. Sad. Formerly something a bit like army._

It was too weird. He cleaned the wound with mechanical movements, his mind swimming with pictures of Mary. Mary smiling. Mary offering him a book with a hidden note inside. Mary drinking coffee. Mary with tears in her eyes. Mary shooting Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged.

”She only shot me a little, it doesn't matter. Now listen -,”

_Mary Fucking Not-Army Morstan had shot Sherlock?_

John's temper flared, and then kept on flaming. There were things in the world which weren't all right, and things which were plain wrong. He knew which one this was without a doubt. He took three fast steps away, knowing better than to keep on touching Sherlock while this agitated.

”A little? _A little?!_ You're fucking bleeding! From a bloody bullet wound! On your damn arm! How can this not matter?”

Mary shooting Sherlock. Mary shooting Sherlock in the chest. Mary shooting Sherlock in the head. Sherlock bleeding. Sherlock laying on the floor. Sherlock being unconscious. Sherlock being dead.

Sherlock shook his head.

”Stop shouting, John! I'm all right, it's all fine. Now listen to what I found out about h-,”

There were many things John could take and keep on taking, and some things he wasn't ready to even contemplate. He gestured at the wound, in case Sherlock hadn't noticed it.

”Sherlock. You've been shot. This is not all right. In fact, it's so bloody far away from all right it's not even in the same fucking country. It's not fine to be shot! Trust me on this! I don't know how to say this any clearer.”

He was aware that his voice was loud and growing louder, that his breaths were fast and laboured. Sherlock cocked his head, gave him a curious look.

”You seem – upset.”

”Upset? Upset! Of course I'm bloody _upset_! You've been shot at by a fucking librarian! How could I be anything else than upset? You being shot is very upsetting! Why aren't _you_ more upset?”

Okay, so maybe he was shouting a little. But that last image, the one about Sherlock laying on the floor in the pool of his own blood, it wasn't leaving him. He couldn't face that, not ever. So what if he was shouting?

”Shush, John! You're going to alarm Mrs Hudson.”

John leaned against the wall, breathless and weary as if he had just run ten marathons. Maybe he wasn't being completely fair here. _Deep breaths, Watson. Face the fear._

”Sherlock. Please understand. I only ended up here because I feared for your life. I promised myself that wouldn't happen again. That if you were in danger, I'd at least be there with you. The least I can do, you know? And now I learn that while I was off chatting with your brother, you had run out to be shot at by librarians. It makes me feel very bad. I'm sorry about the shouting. Can I please take another look at the wound?”

Sherlock peeked at his arm, at the trail of lazy blood sliding down against the paleness of his skin, leaving a horrid red path in its wake. His expression was curious, and John couldn't help but imagine him analysing the trail, making notes for future reference.

”It's just a graze, you said that yourself.”

”Just – please, Sherlock. Let me put a bandage on it.”

“Will you listen to me, then?” Sherlock asked, his voice suspicious.

“Yeah, I will,” John promised wearily. “I'll listen as long as you want me to.”


	19. Known to Be Indestructible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I've changed the rating to explicit. This chapter is mostly used to earn that change. The plot continues in the next chapter, if Men Going At It is a problem for you.

“It can't be helped, the shirt is ruined.”

John sighed.

“Sherlock, please try to understand. You've been shot. Who the hell cares about the shirt? Have you even taken any painkillers?”

Sherlock grimaced, still lamenting the loss of his precious garment. “It's my favourite one. There's no way the blood will wash out, and even if it did, the bullet hole remains. Such a shame.” He toed at the purple fabric on the bathroom floor pensively before glancing at the fuming doctor on the doorway. 

“Yes, of course I took some,” he admitted, frowning. “I'm not a child, John. I can take care of myself. Or didn't you notice what I was doing when you charged in?” Gingerly, he stooped to pick up the shirt, bare skin sliding over ribs and narrow hipbones, the snug fit of his trousers continuing the elegant line.

John stared by the door, riveted. He could keep the doctor act going on without problems as long as there were wounds to fix, patients to treat, but this was different. Sherlock was on his feet, well enough to bitch about a damn shirt, and still utterly, sinfully topless. The doctor disappeared without saying good-bye, in its stead now a very interested man who remembered well that he had actually kissed this beautiful creature. Several times, even.

How such a lanky man could possess a frame like that was a mystery, one that John wanted to dig his fingers into. Sherlock had a seemingly endless back, smooth curves marking his shoulders, scapulae and the gentle turn of his arse. Moderate muscles rippled under the acres of supple skin on display. Untouched, unblemished skin.

John jumped. That couldn't be right. The doctor, already almost forgotten, came rushing back.

“Sherlock?” He asked, taking two quick steps towards the other man. “Stand still for a moment, would you?”

Sherlock stilled, let John into his personal space without a complaint, watched curiously as John circled him, not believing the evidence of his own eyes.

“It's impossible,” he muttered to himself.

The detective cocked his head, waiting. “What?”

“This, you,” John stammered, gesturing at the unmarked chest, the muscled arms. “How can this happen?”

“What?” Sherlock repeated, scowling. Clearly John's input was deemed insufficient and the speed of his delivery too slow.

“It hasn't even been a month,” John wondered, “and they're all gone. Disappeared.”

He stopped, stared hard at his friend's eyes. “Some of them were too deep, some of them infected. I'm not that good a doctor, Sherlock. What's going on here?”

Sherlock exhaled, relaxing the muscles John hadn't realised he'd drawn taut. “Oh. You mean the cuts.”

“Yes, the cuts,” John repeated, slowly as if he was speaking to a child, “from your little trip to the warehouse. Where we met. They were everywhere, Sherlock. You might not remember it, but it took me hours to sort through all of them. I'm not imagining things. So explain this to me. Where did they go?”

“Healed,” Sherlock shrugged, uninterested in what John deemed a miracle of a curative process.

“Yes,” John agreed, “but they haven't just healed, have they? They've vanished. Cuts like that leave scars, Sherlock. Lasting scars. Yet there aren't any.” His hand raised to touch that chest, to confirm the evidence of his eyes with other senses. Sherlock was warm, and smooth, and unbroken under his attentions. John's eyes widened, even as Sherlock's narrowed.

“Have I skipped universes once again?”

His answer was a snort. It was surprisingly reassuring.

“Obviously not. I'm known to be indestructible, John. Nor knives neither guns can leave a lasting – _oh!_ That's it!” His expression changed from amusement to elation as a deduction made itself known.

“Well tell me!” John demanded as Sherlock took a moment to bask in his own cleverness.

The detective took a step closer, bringing their chests almost together. It wasn't exaggeration to say that his voice was a purr when he spoke.

“Take your shirt off.”

John gaped. “Why?”

“You were shot,” Sherlock said and genuinely sounded like John should understand this train of thought without any more explanations.

“Yes,” John answered carefully. “We've already covered that.”

“Show me,” Sherlock rumbled, and John could feel the vibration of his speech on his own ribcage, so close the other man was standing. It woke something small and scared in him. Here he was, alone with this almost ethereal creature, asked to bare his own flaws for inspection. Sherlock could be cut, trampled on, apparently even shot, and he always sprung back, ready for the next round. But John wasn't like that. His body carried the scars of the battles he had taken part in, his torso littered in unwanted souvenirs. What if Sherlock, Sherlock who so flippantly defined himself as indestructible, Sherlock who could shrug off any wound and be more concerned about a damn shirt, deemed his flaws the last straw?

John knew very well he hadn't been the easiest person to be around during these last weeks. It wouldn't be any wonder if Sherlock decided he'd had enough.

_What the hell are you thinking? It's Sherlock. If anything, he'll be fascinated by these things. Grow up, Watson!_

A challenge in his eyes, John undressed, first the jumper and then the shirt under it, leaving himself mirroring Sherlock, clad only in trousers and shoes. The effort left him flustered, his misgivings covered in anger. Glowering at Sherlock was easier than cowering away from him.

He was given a knowing smirk for his efforts. Then Sherlock stalked around him, stopping only to stare at his shoulder behind him. The door to his bedroom was open: John could see their reflection in the mirror there. Sherlock, predatory and graceful even with his arm bandaged, and he himself, small and stocky, resolutely standing his ground. Both of them, shirtless. Both of them, engrossed in each other. For a moment, save for Sherlock's slow steps, the flat was silent. John took deep, measured breaths, counting the seconds to himself.

“You're wrong,” Sherlock said when the inspection was over, and his humid breath hit John's ear like electricity. He had stopped to stand next to him, very close, his right hand resting on John's shoulder. “I do remember that night in the warehouse. You were,” and that was definitely the tip of his tongue, darting to touch John's earlobe, “unexpected.”

Another hint of a lick, and Sherlock's voice dropped a register. John shivered, even though the room was warm. “Spectacular.”

There were hands on his hips now as Sherlock moved to stand in front of him. John licked his lips. The gleam in the grey, alert eyes was nothing short of predatory.

“And I never thanked you properly,” Sherlock breathed, and it was a déjà vu, the way he went down to his knees, holding to John and staring at him through those fluttering, unfair eyelashes. It was about then that John realised that he couldn't possibly get any harder, and Sherlock _smirked_ , very deliberately, and leaned forward, his chin resting against John's tight jeans, never taking his eyes off him. The bastard knew. Of course he did.

“Your answer,” Sherlock said, and there was warm breath in places that hadn't felt things like this for ages, and John swallowed a helpless groan. “Your answer is simpler than you think. Do you want to hear it?”

He nodded weakly. Anything to keep Sherlock speaking, to prolong this moment of breathtaking anticipation. He'd had fantasies like this, about Sherlock in the bathroom. His ears were ringing, blood pumping desperately down, down. How far was Sherlock willing to take this? How far was John himself ready to go?

As far as he was allowed to, he thought, and then Sherlock pushed up with his chin, demanding his full attention.

“I'm a submissive,” Sherlock breathed, not submissively at all, still holding the eye contact. John didn't see his quick fingers working on his belt before it was wide open, but his body was delighted, so much so that he was afraid something might actually break. Concentrating on the words that dark voice was whispering became harder and harder.

“Some of us like pain, like being punished,” Sherlock admitted, bringing the lock of John's belt close to his mouth and licking it. _Tasting_ it. John took a painful-sounding breath. Could people die of sexual suspense?

He bet he could.

“Some of us enjoy being pushed down and used,” Sherlock continued, releasing the belt. It hit John's thigh, forgotten. There were long fingers working on his jeans now and John wanted desperately watch, see it happen, but that would mean breaking the contact, taking his eyes off that intense stare, leaning out. Unacceptable. He wouldn't, couldn't, blink first.

“And you?” He breathed out, surprised to hear his own voice. A growl, a threat. Sherlock seemed to like it, if the way his pupils dilated at the sound was any indication at all.

“We heal fast,” he summarised, ignoring the question. “And take pain well. It takes more than a few cuts to leave a scar on me.”

As a further proof he pressed that unmarked body against John's legs, a sinuous heat all the way from his hips to his neck. Warmth and skin and promise all mixed together. The only reason John's cock didn't break in two there and then was that Sherlock had just managed to open his jeans and tug them down, leaving him straining in his pants, slotted firmly against that square, upturned jawline.

“Oh shit,” John murmured, and Sherlock finally, finally turned his head and _nuzzled_ , and all John could do was to grasp those pale shoulders to avoid falling over, his jeans on his knees, his eyes surrendering, falling closed.

“Sherlock,” John tried, again, and this time it was more like whine, “what do _you_ like?”

Warm pressure, softness, moistness, and he had to fight his eyes open to realise what was going on. Sherlock was mouthing him through his pants, his own eyelids fluttering closed, a pink haze high on his cheeks. John groaned, his hips pushing forward by their own accord, and Sherlock opened his mouth wide and _breathed_ on him.

“Sherlock,” John begged, and it was half a warning, because this was too much, he couldn't take this without exploding. He was pretty sure he felt a tongue, and those, God, those were _teeth_. Sherlock groaned right back at him, pressing himself against his legs, a fresh sweat breaking over that lithe body, fingers fumbling at the hem of John's pants.

“Sherlock,” John tried for the last time, arousal thrumming through his whole body, “do you want to – ”

“Obviously,” Sherlock cut him out, and then he was tugging at John's pants, none too gently, and in the next second he was bared, bobbling in the air between them, and it might have been embarrassing if not for the hungry look Sherlock was giving him. He pressed forward again, mouth opening blindly, but that was the moment when John finally allowed himself to catch up and pushed back, a palm against the hot forehead.

“No,” he said, and Sherlock froze, stopped breathing, turned stock-still and small. John knew he was standing on the edge of a ravine here, but this was too wild, too single-minded, and probably too quickly over. Prime material for misunderstandings, hastily said words. John thought fast, glancing around the familiar room, the open doors. Kitchen, nothing. Sherlock's bedroom, nothing. Wait. The mirror. Of course.

“Look to your right,” he said, thinking about clear blue skies and hot dry winds. The captain woke up, took control of the situation. Sherlock let out a rattled breath and obeyed warily, his eyes travelling over the tiled floor until they found the full-body mirror on his bedroom wall, the one currently reflecting the scene unfolding here in the bathroom.

“Tell me what you see,” John said, his voice dispassionate.

But quite a sight it was, Sherlock kneeling and flushed, having only a moment ago practically rubbed himself against John's legs, still shirtless and wild-haired. And John himself, feet firmly planted on the floor, his erection jutting proudly out from his body, his arm outstretched.

Sherlock gulped, tried a few times before finding his voice.

“Us,” he said finally. “I see us.”

John smiled. Sherlock sounded timid, unsure, but not discouraged. He'd read the situation correctly, then. Submissive, indeed.

“You want to suck my cock,” he said, pronouncing carefully this absurd combination of words, giving said part of his body a long stroke with his right hand. Sherlock shuddered, his gaze glued to the mirror. John felt like an idiot, but it seemed to be working for Sherlock, who couldn't take his eyes off their reflection.

“Show me how much,” John ordered, not quite sure what would happen, and Sherlock came to life with one last shiver, his hands flailing around for a moment before coming to rest on his own trousers, clasping at his own belt, the buttons, the zip, until, _God_ , he was jerking everything down, baring the part of him that was as swollen and needy as John's own flesh. It was his turn to shudder, then, to stare at the mirror, transfixed. Sherlock's cock was long, slender and already dripping, and John stroked himself absent-mindedly a little harder, too occupied by their reflection to even notice.

“Touch yourself,” he said, the words coming easier already, and Sherlock did, oh Lord he did, without a question, without any hesitation at all. His big palm came up, rolling over the wet tip and the hard length, long slow strokes meant not to bring him to orgasm but to prolong the waiting, to wait for the next order. John sighed, forcing himself to a slower pace, to keep up with Sherlock. For a moment, the bathroom was almost completely quiet, only their breathing breaking the hush. Then John stilled his hand, and a moment later Sherlock followed his cue, his breathing coming low and ragged now.

“Do you want to taste?” John asked, not quite believing the words that came out his mouth, unplanned and unbidden. In the mirror, Sherlock blushed.

“Yes, please,” he answered, looking just as dazed as John felt, and that too, made it easier somehow. That they were on the same page here, more or less. Finding their way as they went. John, his eyes still on the mirror, brought his left hand on Sherlock's temple and turned his unresisting head back, saw his mouth opening, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

He remembered the softness of those lips, the heat of that mouth, the eagerness with which Sherlock had accepted him inside, had sucked and kissed and wanted more, and for a moment he had to breathe deep, think about something else, his heart hammering like a thousand scared birds inside his ribcage. Then he, very carefully, rolled his left index finger over the wet head of his own cock and offered it to Sherlock, not quite believing any of this was real, not quite knowing where to look at.

In the mirror, Sherlock on his knees, still holding his own erection, waited with his mouth open. In the bathroom, John stood in front of him, his finger wet with precome, his heart in his throat. The moment of hesitation came and went, and then his finger met Sherlock's lower lip, and the kneeling man groaned, and leaned forward, and then he was licking, and sucking, and John found out that fucking Sherlock's mouth with nothing but two fingers was as arousing as anything he could remember ever doing. Sherlock was wet, and insistent, and quite soon demanding more with uncoordinated little whimpers.

“Work for it,” John told him, his voice rough, and it took Sherlock a moment to understand his meaning, to start pumping his own cock, first slowly but quite soon faster, harder, his eyes fluttering closed again.

“You're so beautiful,” John whispered, thrusting his fingers into that open mouth again and again. “I can't believe how beautiful you can be. God, just _look_ at you. Irresistible.”

Around his fingers, Sherlock moaned, picking up a faster tempo. 

“Slower,” John whispered and watched with wonder the instant effect his words had, the way Sherlock's forehead relaxed, his skull lolled back. His pulse, visible on that long, taut throat, pumped fast and strong under his skin.

“Perfect,” John told him and removed his fingers. His own, thrumming cock demanded attention, and John gave himself a few long strokes before offering this new feast for Sherlock to devour.

“Lick it,” was all he needed to say, and Sherlock opened his eyes, black and dazed, and then his gleaming tongue was lapping at John's messy fingers. It was all – 

“Brilliant,” John sighed, “amazing. I'd kill for you, you know. If anyone ever hurts you again, I'll kill them.”

It was a bit not good thing to say, he knew, but the effect those words had on Sherlock was immediate. He froze, his eyes growing huger still, his whole body shivering. Then he groaned helplessly, surged forward to suck on John's wet fingers and started fucking his own fist almost convulsively.

Quite soon, his lips were moving, trying to form words around the invading digits.

“What?” John asked, stroking those quivering cheeks from inside.

“I want –,” Sherlock started, “I need – ,” he tried again, gulping for breath, “please,” he finally begged, eyes full of desperation, his whole body tense and on edge now, and John gave him mercy the only way he could.

“Come for me, Sherlock,” he urged, and Sherlock _shrieked_ , and his hand stilled, and then he was coming, painting the floor with wet stripes, and John took hold of his hair and pushed his cock inside that open mouth, pumped once, twice, four times and then he was coming too, too far gone to prolong it any more.

And, yes, while fingerfucking Sherlock's mouth had been brilliant, shoving his cock there was a thousand times better. He might have been yelling, or swearing, or then completely silent, he couldn't quite tell, but behind his closed eyes shone a black light so blinding that for a moment, he couldn't see anything at all. His balls were tight and insistent, his erection at a breaking point, and then it was too late to do anything else than hang on for dear life. And under him, Sherlock moaned and opened his mouth wider and took everything John had to give, keeping him up with two strong hands around his hips, sure and reliable and so, so greedy.

And then it was over, and they were just two panting men, one standing, one crouching on the floor, and both of them looking at each other with wild, wide eyes. And then, to John's everlasting horror, Sherlock's eyes filled with tears, he turned his face away, and it was here, that moment of non-communication he had been afraid of only some minutes earlier. No. This couldn't happen. He wouldn't allow it to.

“Sherlock?” He asked, dropping down next to him. “Sherlock? Did I hurt you? Speak to me. What's wrong?”

“You said you weren't a dom,” Sherlock answered after a moment of heavy silence. “You promised me that, and now this. You can't break our rules and expect me to follow them.”

It didn't make any sense, no matter how John tried to think about it.

“I don't understand,” he admitted, baffled. “We have rules?”

“It's not a game for me,” Sherlock moaned and sounded like he was biting back tears. “I fought so hard, so long, to not let it affect me. And then you did this!”

“You,” John started, unsure and terrified, “didn't you like it? Did I something wrong?”

“Like it?” Sherlock asked, scandalised. “What's that to do with anything? Of course I liked it, that should be obvious.” A glance at their come-smeared bodies and the clothes strewn across the room made his meaning clear. Despite himself, John blushed. Sherlock only shook his head.

“You said you'd kill for me. You can't say things like that and expect me not to care.”

“I'm – sorry,” John tried, slowly. “It just slipped out.”

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Sherlock groaned, low and long, before getting up and wobbling to shower, shedding his remaining clothes as he went. John remained on the floor, quiet and waiting. Sherlock would sort this out. He always did, in the end.

This time, he didn't have to wait for long. Over the running water, Sherlock's voice still carried easily, even sad and slow as it was now.

“I was wrong. I told you I was indestructible, but I was wrong.”

John didn't say anything, trusting him to explain.

“I thought I could withstand it. But John, you're the sun. You're the tide and the magnetism and the gravitation. I'm not indestructible, you've just proven that. You can destroy me easily enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed this story so far, perhaps you'd like to visit me at tunteeton.tumblr.com, where I post occassional sneek peaks and ever rarer original thoughts. And leaving a comment is always appreciated! Thank you for reading!


	20. Know Thyself

While the residents of 221B Baker Street were otherwise occupied in the bathroom, Sherlock's phone buzzed and buzzed on the kitchen table.

_Little brother, I strongly advice against this. MH_

On the other side of the wall, Sherlock's bony knees hit the floor and John momentarily forgot how to breathe.

_Have you forgotten Redbeard? MH_

Zips were opened, belts thrown away. There was some mutual gasping and squirming going on before slick, organic sounds masked the buzzing. The phone rang briefly before the next message appeared on the unwatched screen.

_Sherlock, stop._

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson turned the telly volume all the way up. Oh, those boys. Still, she couldn't help but be happy for Sherlock. He had been so lost, so detached, before John turned up. But really, did they have to be quite so loud? The last time it had been this bad was when Mrs Turner's tenants had just returned from their honeymoon. Poor Bertha had taken refuge on her sofa for a week.

_You are going to lose him, you know. MH_

The sounds of a shower running filled the sudden silence. A moment later, John Watson walked, almost limped, forlornly, into the kitchen, clad only in socks and a pair of jeans. His head was turned down, his eyes unreadable in the black and white video feed. Of course, seeing his expression would have been redundant, anyway. His stilted movements, tightly clasped fists revealed everything necessary for anyone who cared to see and observe.

John collapsed against the counter top, hiding his face in his arms.

His phone, abandoned next to the microwave, beeped once. 

_Go be with him, you tit. MH_

–

John had been in a couple of royal messes during his life. There had been the thing with Harry and her first serious girlfriend, the nightmare that was his first month of residency at Barts, that whole fiasco of the missing supplies in Kandahar, and, of course, the often terrifying experience which was the day-to-day life of sharing a flat with one Sherlock Holmes. This was to say, John knew a thing or two about functioning under stress, conflict and shouting people. He had perfected the stiff upper lip and the keep calm -mentality years ago. He could ignore, placate or soothe as the need arose. He considered himself a pretty capable man.

Nothing, however, _nothing_ had prepared him for the scene that was Sherlock, naked and avoiding his gaze, sitting on his bed in the middle of the sheets and the pillows. His hair was wet from the recent shower, dripping shiny droplets down his back, but the bandage around his arm had thankfully stayed mostly dry. He wasn't shivering or crying, nothing so overt. Instead, he was just sitting, quiet and despondent, staring at his own hands with his shoulders slumped. It wasn't a look anyone wanted to see on a person they'd just had sex with. Sherlock looked ready to give up, and the worst part of it was that John knew that he himself was somehow responsible, and he couldn't understand how. He had thought Sherlock had enjoyed their little encounter. Sherlock had even said himself that that wasn't the issue. Instead, there had been some brief and highly confusing talk about natural forces that John chose not to analyse just now. Maybe never.

 _[“If I wanted to read poetry, I'd read John's e-mails to his girlfriends.”]_ No. Don't go there now. This is Sherlock. Concentrate on Sherlock now, you moron of a Watson. You did this. Fix this.

“So that's what getting caught up in a moment feels like,” Sherlock told the pillows when John stopped to stand next to the bed, unsure what to do with himself.

John sighed, sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. “I'm sorry.”

He got a frown for his troubles, Sherlock's nose curling up in exasperation. He looked instantly better, more like himself. The default state of Sherlock Holmes: annoyance by other people's slowness.

“Why are you sorry? There's no reason to be sorry, what are you sorry for?”

“This – thing?” John gestured between them. “Making you feel that way?”

The frown didn't go away. “Feel what way?”

“I don't know,” John admitted, shrugging. “Sad? Disappointed? Angry with me?”

Sherlock gave him a disbelieving stare before huffing and sloping down on the bed, the pillows awkwardly under his back. “You,” he declared to the room, “have misunderstood everything.” It would have been catastrophic if not for the slow smile that was starting to appear on his face. He had deduced something. The bastard had deduced something, and he was keeping it from John.

It was too weird, Sherlock lazing about like some kind of reverse Sleeping Beauty, staring at the ceiling like it could tell him all the secrets of the world (and probably had already), that open-mouthed smile haunting his features. He had went from sadness to – this, whatever this was this time, in a record time, leaving behind a very confused John Watson. The old mistrust started to surface. Sherlock had made an art out of fooling him. John's voice was cold, clipped, when he spoke.

“Then explain.”

Sherlock just hummed, tapping his fingers against his stomach. John fought back the urge to catch his hands and make him pay attention, stop this strange game he was playing. Instead, he closed his eyes, took deep breaths, reminded himself that just a moment ago there had been a quiet, remorseful consulting detective on the bed. This was better. Probably.

For a moment, silence reigned in the room. On the other side of the wall, Sherlock's phone beeped.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock shouted to its general direction. That got John moving. He stood up, took agitated steps around the bed, avoiding the mirror. Watching at it felt – dirty, somehow. As if he could still see them in it, lost in the moment, lost in each other.

“He sent me a text just now,” he said. “He knows.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Of course he does. My brother has always had quite the lax understanding of the meaning of privacy.”

That didn't make John feel any better about anything. “But, I mean, it's like he was watching! Was he watching?”

Sherlock looked at him curiously. “Watching what, John?”

John stopped his pacing, gaped at him, not believing his ears. “What?”

Sherlock, damn the man, stretched on the bed, hands high above his head, the sheet just barely covering his modesty. John became aware that he was staring, mouth open, body taking more interest than should be possible so soon. Sherlock smirked. “A problem?”

Okay, who was he trying to fool here? This wasn't any better. John growled and let his anger take over, climbing on the bed and straddling the infuriating man in one quick movement. He pushed the thin wrists into the mattress next to the curly head and planted his arse on the stretched ribcage. Sherlock struggled for a moment, just enough to make it clear he wouldn't be going anywhere before John would allow it. Then he relaxed, smiled widely and melted into the bed. Like he was exactly where he had wanted to be. Like he had planned this.

The suspicion grew stronger. Had Sherlock planned this?

“What the hell are you playing at?” John demanded, totally fed up with the Holmeses and their infernal power games. “Stop it, it's not funny.”

“Proving a point,” Sherlock told him airily, as if he found nothing amiss with the situation. The damn man was probably wiggling his toes just now.

“What fucking point are you talking about now?”

Distantly, he had a feeling they'd had this conversation earlier. No, not them. The other Sherlock.

“You,” Sherlock answered, and John remembered. That first night. The chase after Jefferson Hope, then Angelo and his forgotten cane. Sherlock's wide smile when John finally realised he had walked, run and leaped all over London without any problems at all. The intoxicating freedom he had felt for weeks afterwards, the unspoken disappearance of his cane from the flat.

“Oh,” he answered elegantly, too taken by the memories to formulate whole sentences. Sherlock frowned at him.

“It's not the first point that has been made, I see.”

“No, it's not,” John admitted, his voice soft.

“I don't mind.”

That brought John back to the present. His expression hardened and he gave Sherlock's wrists a little shake.

“But I do. Explain yourself to me.”

“You,” Sherlock repeated.

“Yes, you said that already. It's time to get more specific.”

Sherlock smiled at him. It was not a nice smile.

“You so enjoy doing this.”

John cocked his head. Sherlock stared at him under lowered lids, limp and trusting even in the face of John's exasperation, even while poking him forward. Like he knew John could never hurt him.  
“Doing what?”

“Having me like this. Under your power.” A pause, to let his words sink in. He continued before John could protest. “I told you that earlier, but you denied it then. And now look at you again,” Sherlock's voice was sin incarnate, and he pushed against John's hold. Instinctively, John pressed a little harder, kept those dextrous hands where he could see them, pinned between his weight and the soft mattress.

“What are you talking about, of course I don't -,” John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“The second time we met, you wrestled me to the ground.”

_[Sherlock, on his back on the living room with John straddling his hips, calm and relaxed and – erect. Accepting John's weight over him, John's finger into his mouth. John, breathless with the revelation, pushing him down even harder before fleeing.]_

“The second time you did it was after that talk with Mary.”

_[Sherlock, this time on John's bedroom floor, his lips bruised from John's kisses, eyes huge, striving for more. John, keeping him down, denying him the thing the both of them wanted. Sherlock telling him he enjoyed it. John, rebuffing that statement fiercely.]_

“And the third time,” Sherlock added, pushing once more against John's hold. “It's progress,” he finished. “We've graduated to the bed.”

“Oh God,” John groaned, bombarded by the recurring memories and the current situation both. Sherlock felt wonderful, felt right under him, and as soon as John realised this it was like he had become oversensitive to every point of contact between them. Sherlock's pulse beat on his wrists, the heat of his body seeped to John's thighs through his ribcage, which rose and fell with every laboured breath. He was brilliant, and terribly right, and John couldn't look at him right then.

“Oh God,” he repeated to the ceiling, feeling the blush creep up to his cheeks.

“I was right, then, wasn't I?” Sherlock asked.

“You were – guessing?” John exclaimed, humiliation painting his face even darker.

Sherlock snorted. “I never guess.”

“Yes you do,” John said, but then the realisation made itself known. “But aren't you forgetting something?”

A frown. “What?”

John put his whole weight on his hands, pushing Sherlock deeper into the mattress. He relaxed immediately, let his lids flutter shut, bared his throat. John took it all in, wasn't terribly surprised at the low sound which erupted from his mouth. “Your own role in this. I'm pretty sure you could move me if you really wanted. I don't think I'm the only one who finds this – enjoyable.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, rolled them in a 'I expected more from you' -fashion. “Obviously. But the point wasn't me. We both know what I am. But what are you?”

“Not a dominant,” John reminded him. Sherlock nodded.

“No. But yet. Your behaviour, your words, it's all there. Clues, if you just know where to look at, what to look for.”

“And what do you see, with your observational skills?” It was teasing, he was teasing Sherlock Holmes, and it felt magnificent. Sherlock gave him one of those flickering looks, his eyes mapping John's face, taking everything in.

“Your first instinct is to protect me. The night we met, you killed for me. I haven't seen you show any remorse over that. You've told me you'd kill again, if I was threatened, and I believe you. You make sure I eat, you dress my wounds, you step between me and those who wish me bad, or wish to own me. _You_ wish to own me, but you're too courteous to even think about that yourself. You enjoy seeing me restrained, helpless, under your power. On the other hand, you abhor seeing me subservient to other people. You get off on giving me commands and having me obey you. You don't enjoy me lowering myself for you, though. Again, you're too noble for that sort of thing. You're sexually attracted to me and find the idea of me being close to someone else distressing, but are willing to accept it if that's what I want. You really are too virtuous, you know. In short, John Watson, you're dominant in all but blood.”

Okay.

It was a bit more information than he had been expecting, but then again, he _had_ asked.

Just breathe. Mull it over.

Sherlock gave him one of those looks, the ones that silently asked if he had finally crossed the line. If this, then, was the point where John walked away and kept on walking.

 _How_ was not the correct answer to this. Neither was _why_.

Sherlock took a deep, ragged breath. It was the first one since John had asked. His expression was nervous, but he still didn't struggle, still didn't try to get away. Waited for his reaction, if not exactly patiently then at least quietly. Gave him time to examine everything that had been said.

The thing was, he couldn't find any fault in Sherlock's propositions, nor in their implications. He had, and he did, and he would. Yes to all of it. God help him, yes.

The smile, when it finally happened, was an almost relieved one, and it lit up his face, smoothed over the stressed furrows.

“You're brilliant,” John said, because that was his line. “Amazing. It's true. It's all true.”

It's remarkable how you don't notice the masquerade before it ends. Something happened, something John couldn't quite see but which he nonetheless felt. It was like all of Sherlock's cells gave a little sigh and softened. The earlier pretence, gone unrealised until it disappeared, fled from Sherlock's features, in its stead now stood a sort of dazed look of wonder. Gone was the coy expression, the calculations behind those sharp eyes. His lips, left just slightly open, were soft and vulnerable, beckoning. His heartbeat, slow and steady under John's chest. It was just them, alone together, and no haunting memory from the past materialised to separate them. It was, finally, just the two of them.

John felt at peace. He inhaled, and the air came easily, the almost forgotten pressure in his lungs finally dissipating. His thoughts felt clear. His heart felt free.

Under him, Sherlock mirrored his breaths, his smiles. Without a conscious thought, John leaned forward, brought their faces closer together.

“I wish,” he murmured against the warm breath, not quite touching, “that this was our first kiss.”

“It is,” Sherlock answered, his lips brushing John's, almost by accident. “In a way, it is.”

And when it then happened, nearly innocently, it was as sweet and calm and trusting as neither of them had ever had it before.

John practised the words, silently, whispering them straight into Sherlock's mouth, until he was sure he had it right, that he really meant them, here, with him. When he was certain, he opened his eyes, looked at the closed, fluttering eyelids of his lover. He had practised. It was easy now.

“I love you,” he said, and saw Sherlock's eyes opening, pale grey where they weren't dark and dilated, soft for once.

“I'm yours,” Sherlock answered, voice wavering, and it meant the same. Different worlds, different words, but the feeling was the same, the meaning was heartfelt and true.

Time moved slowly, languidly, outside their window. Inside, it stood still. They kissed again.


	21. The Present

The heavy evening light in Sherlock's bedroom was yellow, somehow almost slow in its movements across the floor. Little stars of dust floated in the air between the open window and the unmade bed, rising and falling with the gusts of wind from the street outside. On the bed lazed two men, one naked, one clad in trousers and socks, neither of them in a hurry to be anywhere else. They spoke in low, relaxed tones.

“So, Mycroft?”

“No. Mary first.”

“No, she's boring. What did my brother propose?”

Short silence, telling in all the ways it wasn't strained. Then:

“Sherlock, she shot at you. It's not boring.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John silenced him with another kiss. It was a sloppy one, too much emotion and too little aim to really lead anywhere, but then again, it wasn't meant to. It was just a kiss, half-hearted one, because he could.

“Is that how you're going to tweak all our debates to your advantage from now on?” The scorn in Sherlock's voice was purely superficial, born more out of habit than any real objection to John's tactics.

John smiled. “Plenty more where that came from. Please. Tell me about Mary. I still don't know if I have to go out and kill her or not.”

That had an instant, and gratifying, effect on Sherlock's pupils.

“Oh, talk dirty to me, sir,” he whispered, his voice almost a prayer.

“Only the truth,” John swore. “Only the truth.”

That granted him some rather more enthusiastic kisses, and for a while, the occupants of the bed were too busy to concentrate on anything happening outside its boundaries. Then, predictably, Sherlock's phone buzzed.

“Go away, Mycroft, no one cares about your overstuffed opinions,” Sherlock muttered, and John's head cleared enough to get them back to the matter at hand.

“Forget him. You met Mary. How did you even manage to find her?”

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look. “Your phone, obviously.”

“Has been with me all the time.”

A wicked grin, a dance of those quick fingers down his chest. It was almost playful, until Sherlock glanced at him from under dark eyelashes, and it became something else entirely. “So you'd prefer to think.”

Figuring it out didn't take long. “You – you pickpocketed me? You git!”

“You were being obtuse. I had to meet this Mary person, and you weren't co-operating.”

John closed his eyes. Sherlock's words aside, when had this happened? He'd had his phone with him ever since they came back from the laboratory, and before that they had been – otherwise occupied. Try as he did, he couldn't come up with a single instance after telling Sherlock about Mary when he would have had the time to fiddle with John's phone.

Sherlock, of course, figured out what he was thinking about before he had actually finished the thought, and so he interrupted.

“Come on, John, I promised I wouldn't drug you.”

John blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. If he kept on doing that any more often, he'd probably strain something. “After you met Victor. I told you I'd never drug you. Did you really think I'd forgotten?”

Oh. “So,” John started, slowly, piecing it all together, “when you asked me to take the drug, you didn't actually mean it. You, it, it was a distraction.”

“Because?” Sherlock coaxed him on, seemingly fascinated with the way John pursed his lips while thinking.

“We kissed. You kissed me.”

Sherlock hummed, putting his fingers to the place where his eyes had been a moment ago.

“You kissed me to get into my pockets without me noticing? Sherlock, that's -”

“Shh,” Sherlock said, pushing gently against John's lips, “I kissed you because I wanted to. The phone thing was just a plus.”

John pushed his hand away, groaning. “And you couldn't just ask me for her number?”

“I tried to get you to invite her over. Multiple times, in fact, but you were against it. So I had to act by myself.”

“Yes, and then you went and got yourself shot. So maybe I had a point?”

Sherlock shrugged, frowning. “I had only your words to go by, and so wasn't expecting any homicidal tendencies, or the fact that she carries a handgun around in her purse. Really, John, you should have noticed that at least. The way she holds on to the thing! The straps!”

There was, once again, too much information in that sentence to get his brain around. But never mind the gun, John concentrated on the most important aspect of Sherlock's diatribe.

“Homicidal? Are you saying she actually tried to kill you?”

“Nah,” Sherlock answered. “I think I surprised her, and she overreacted.”

“By drawing a gun on you.” John's voice was perfectly steady.

Sherlock fidgeted. “I may have mentioned Mycroft.”

“What? I'm not the biggest fan of your brother, but mentioning him doesn't compel me to start shooting people.”

“You're also not in hiding from the government.”

“In hiding? What are you talking about? Isn't she a librarian?”

“From another _world_ , John. She's afraid of what might happen if she was caught. Quite rightfully so, I suspect. Mycroft can be very – forceful, when he wants something. And he wants nothing as much as information.”

“But I'm like that as well,” John insisted numbly, “and he leaves me in peace. Well, mostly peace,” he amended, remembering their meetings, the first and the latest ones, Mycroft's insistence in unravelling his secrets. 

“You also live with me,” Sherlock pointed out. “Mycroft already has you under surveillance by proxy. And I'd let him have it if he took you away to one of his hidey-holes.”

“Right,” John mumbled, trying not to think about the deal with the devil he'd made earlier today, about the little chips hidden into his phone and his skin, respectively. By proxy, indeed.

Sherlock saw it, this tightening of his features, and nudged him impatiently.

“You now,” he demanded. “What did he want from you?”

John shrugged, smiling weakly. “You said it yourself, information,” he answered, sticking to the half-truth. Mycroft had agreed, in the end, to keep Sherlock in the dark about Moriarty. John could tell he didn't quite see the point of it, the obnoxious ease with which he dismissed Sherlock as something not important in the grand scheme of things.

“He has such a low opinion about you.” It slipped out of his mouth unbidden, unhappily. Sherlock just shrugged, turned his face away. John caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark, sad expression before he was presented with a wide back sloping down into narrow hips, the shoulder blades sticking out like cut out wings.

“He rules an alarming part of the western hemisphere,” Sherlock answered with a hollow voice. “Why would he be concerned about a submissive little brother with a knack for solving crimes?”

Never had he heard Sherlock speak about their relationship in such terms. The wrongness of it made John's hair bristle and the comfortable lethargy of his limbs froze into a fighting stance.

“Sherlock,” he said curtly, but there was no answer. He swore under his breath and took hold of a bony shoulder, pulled until Sherlock turned back towards him, his face still twisted away. John felt the anger in his arms, his muscles coiling up in preparation for a fight, but he forced the feeling away, made sure his touch revealed nothing but gentleness.

“Sherlock,” he repeated, mellower now. “You know you're better than that. What you do, it's brilliant, you've saved hundreds of people. He's an idiot not to see it, that's all.”

Sherlock turned his head at that, stared at John with suspiciously gleaming eyes.

“You've got me mixed up with someone else,” he said, managing to sound formal even while lying naked in the bed, as if gearing up for rejection. “I'm not a hero. Heroes don't exist, and if they did -,”

“Don't finish that sentence,” John warned him, feeling an answering glimmer in his own eyes. _Oh, Sherlock. They really don't understand you at all, do they? And here they have that magic button to shut you up._

Sherlock stopped and just lay there, breathing deeply, blinking rapidly. He looked exhausted. John wanted to storm out and punch everyone who had ever made him doubt himself. Instead, he curled closer, taking in the rejected form of his friend.

“You see so much more than they can even imagine,” he started, feeling his way as he went, suddenly sure about this. This, here, was the difference. It couldn't have been more obvious, or more heartbreaking one. “But they won't listen, will they? They don't want to listen to you.”

Sherlock shook his head, so slightly it was almost nothing at all. John nodded, continued on.

“When we met, you were working alone. It wasn't a case for the Met. And you spoke earlier about private investigation. The Seropidol case, it's in the minority, isn't it? When you're helping Lestrade? It's not the norm?”

A slight nod, not much more than a twitch of his neck.

“They won't let you,” John breathed out, and it sounded like swearing even to his own ears. “They don't want to hear your deductions. Not here, not when they put so much value into this whole dominance business. They're being morons, every single one of them.”

“Lestrade tried,” Sherlock cut in, tiredly. “But he can't go against a whole institution. They'll let even Anderson in, but not me. And we're almost the same.”

“The same?” John repeated, not understanding. “Sherlock, you couldn't be more different from him!”

“Gene-wise, we are. He's just over the threshold to the dominant side. I fall short by the same amount. Therefore, he's eligible to choose his own profession, no matter how unsuitable it is. He's only in it for the prestige, you know, and these days, Donovan.”

This time, he didn't try to hold the swearing in.

“Which is why he was so fucking vicious with you. He's got this thing you can never have.” And then the whole truth sank in and John reeled from the force of it. 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, how many cases?” He demanded. “How many cases could you have solved for them, if they but fucking listened? How many lives wasted?”

“I don't know,” Sherlock whispered, drained. “I lost count.”

“This is why you didn't know about Hope,” John realised. _Or Moriarty. This is why Mycroft was so unconcerned. Here, you're nobody. Nobody important. You, of all people._ “Oh fuck.”

“I envy him,” Sherlock confessed, and John had no doubt whom he meant. And how had a man Sherlock had never met, never could even hope to meet, become his measuring rod? It was, of course, all John's own doing. “I envy him so much. His freedom.”

“But – isn't that madness?” John still tried, disbelieving. “So much potential, wasted? Surely there are more people like you, working to make things right?”

Sherlock's lips twitched with something that wasn't amusement and wasn't disgust, but somewhere in between. “Male subs are actually pretty rare. A luxury, you might say. There are traditional paths for us, but those are pretty restricted and not something I feel comfortable pursuing. And times have changed for the better, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Earlier, we were concubines for the rich. Pets, more precisely. Collared to some pompous idiot for a lifetime. Kept so far under they wouldn't know up from down most of the time. There are still people who think we should go back to that.”

John stared, hoping for blessed incomprehension. It wasn't coming. “They were kept as slaves, you mean.”

The idea of Sherlock, sitting year after year on someone's feet, miserable and helpless, filled him with nausea. Of course, his own world history wasn't free of atrocities, but never before had they hit so close to home. This wasn't a page from his school books, this was Sherlock, kept from his one true love, his Work, because of mindless restrictions. And it was an improvement, he said.

Fuck this world. Fuck it and the small-minded people everywhere. 

Sherlock turned to look at him, no doubt seeing the storm that was going on in his thoughts. He gave John a small smile, reached to touch his arm with a long, slender finger.

“Enough of that now. I have a present for you.”

“A present?” John's face, frozen into a frown, started to melt again in a sheer surprise. What was Sherlock talking about now?

Sherlock nodded towards the Belstaff, which laid crumbled in the short corridor outside his bedroom and the bathroom. “Left breast pocket.”

John went to get it, pushed his hand into the pocket and froze.

“No,” he said at once.

Sherlock cocked his head, honestly perplexed. “Why? You said you wanted one. I thought you'd be delighted.”

John closed his hand around the familiar shape of a gun and drew it out of the pocket. It was a Sig, of all things, well cared for, polished and cleaned. It felt comforting and familiar in his grip. He hated it instantly.

“This is hers, isn't it?”

“Yep.”

“Sherlock, this is the gun that was used to shoot you. I'm not wielding this gun.”

Sherlock snorted. “Sentiment, John. It's a perfectly all right gun. Works beautifully, as demonstrated. Also, untraceable. I suspect she brought it with her from that other place.”

“I don't care. She shot you with it. How did you even get it from her?”

Sherlock grinned at that, a real, bright smile. “The element of surprise, John. Don't underestimate it. She did.”

John groaned. “You mean that despite the fact that she had already demonstrated a clear willingness to incapacitate you, you still kept going at her? That's insane! What if she'd -”

“But she didn't,” Sherlock stated bluntly. “Leave it, John. We both surprised each other. But it was worth it.”

“Worth it? How could anything be worth a wound like that?” If his gestures at Sherlock's bandaged arm were a bit wild, then what? He'd come so close to losing him, without even knowing it. While chatting with Mycroft, of all people!

“Data, John. I learned so much about her. Don't you want to hear it?”

“I -,” he started, but then Sherlock's expression hit home and John finally understood what he had done. This had all been for John. Oh Lord, it really had. Sherlock had seen him homesick, sad, distressed, and then there had been a potential way to solve it. He had went off, investigating it. He had been surprised, threatened and hurt, yet he had completed his self-assigned mission, found out the things he had been looking for and returned to John with information and a 'present', something that John had asked from him, no matter how deliriously.

It had all been for him, from start to finish. Sherlock's reaction to their brief, if intense courtship. To John's trust in him.

Helping John despite his protests, the way he knew best. The way that had led to so many rejections, so many disappointments in his life. Helping John, even if it meant losing him later on to Mary, losing him to the siren song of the other Sherlock. Offering him an untraceable gun and an escape plan in a neat bundle. All for John.

Oh _God_.

“'Course,” he forced out. “Of course I want to hear it, all of it. And thanks for the gun. I promise to think about it. But Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere. Please believe me. You won't get rid of me so easily.”

Sherlock's smile left even the sun in its shadow. It made John want to weep. He set the gun reverently down and climbed back to the bed, pressed himself against the smooth expanse which was Sherlock's body under a sheet. How to make the idiot man understand he was here to stay? He didn't have any idea.

“She's telling the truth,” Sherlock started. “Or at least she thinks she's telling the truth. She seemed to be the same as you, ignorant about social norms – what are you sniggering about?”

“Just you,” John explained, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his snorts, “preaching _me_ about social norms.”

The glance Sherlock gave him was nothing short of wounded. Another burst of giggles fled John at the sight.

“Please go on,” he urged his friend – _lover, Watson, better get used to thinking about him that way_ – and Sherlock relented.

“As I _said_ ,” he continued, “she demonstrated many similar traits as you do. And she believes in her cause fervently. She's ready to go very far to protect those she feels are similarly affected, as I learned when I tried to find out more about them,” here Sherlock gave a meaningful glance at his own arm. “But her past, that's what's really interesting.”

“She said she wasn't in the army,” John told him, “but that there had been some violence. That she made bad choices and they caught up with her. She ended up here when someone important to her was killed, or that's what it sounded like to me.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked, but John could only shrug.

“I don't know. She just said 'he'. Said _he_ was caught in the crossfire. She showed me her grave, the Mary Morstan here was stillborn. Said that this Li person theorises that you have to be dead in the other place to skip the worlds. It certainly works in my case, and with all of them as well.”

“John,” Sherlock said, and his voice was very intensive, “do you think you're dead – there?”

“I don't think so,” John answered hesitatingly, “I'm me, aren't I? The John Watson here died in Afghanistan. I'm not him. I came from that place. I'm not there anymore, alive or dead. That's what I think. There's never going to be a body.”

_No body, no clues for Sherlock to find if he survived. A perfect mystery, and he was there to see it happen. My last gift to him. Entertainment to rival Moriarty._

“Good,” said Sherlock, and what was that supposed to mean? “But I think she downplayed her role there. Bad choices, you say? She showed clear signs of being accustomed to violence, both dealing and receiving it. The way she carries her purse, how she holds herself, her right index finger, her shoes. She's not a clean little dove, that's for sure. And she wants back there, desperately. What does this tell you?”

“The librarian thing is a front?” John hazarded.

“Among other things,” Sherlock nodded. “I can't say what exactly she used to be, but she's certainly someone to keep an eye on. I don't think she's done anything illegal here, but so far her efforts have concentrated on getting back. It's likely she'll try to force you to accompany her if she feels it'd help her cause.”

“She begged me to come with her,” John said slowly, remembering the tearful eyes and the pained expression.

“I doubt she'll limit herself to begging,” Sherlock answered, leaning over him for a kiss.

In the kitchen, John's phone started ringing insistently. He sighed, excused himself and stalked there to answer it.

“Finally,” Mycroft's tense voice greeted him. “Moriarty has been spotted in London. A car will be there in twenty minutes. Get inside or I will assume you're in league with him. It's up to you whether to tell my brother or not. Just get into the car, doctor Watson.”


	22. Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a second update this week. No, this is not going to be a recurring thing. Just enjoy it as long as it lasts.

“Absolutely not,” said Sherlock, crowding John against the kitchen counter. “He already stole you once today. Twice is out of the question. He can have you next week, at the earliest.”

“He's not giving me much leeway here,” John replied, trying to wiggle free from between the restricting arms, chivalrously ignoring the fact that the damnable man was still stark naked, except for the bandage around his arm. Somehow, it just served to highlight the glorious bareness of the rest of him. Naked and pressing into him. The world was a cruel, cruel place. “If I don't go, he'll presume I'm complicit in a potential bombing plot. He said twenty minutes, Sherlock. Please.”

“Bombing,” Sherlock repeated, soft lips against John's ear. “So sloppy and unrefined. Not at all like you. Even he should know better.” Was that purring? Was the horrible tease actually _purring_ into his ear?

“Thanks, I think,” John ground out, breathless with the closeness and the warm exhalations into his neck, his throat. Sherlock got even closer, smirking now.

“You're definitely more of the moral type,” he whispered, rubbing himself against John's bare chest, his old jeans. “You only kill as a last resort, don't you? Only the threat. Only to protect others.”

“Fifteen. Minutes,” John tried, feeling the low insistence of his guts again, helpless against the sensory onslaught that was Sherlock Holmes being possessive.

“And you won't,” Sherlock continued, licked a long trail into his skin just under his left ear, “ _never_ ,” another lick, this time along the ridge of his chin, “feel remorse for it.” An unmistakable push of hardness into his side, such wet hotness demanding his attention, just out of reach of his trapped hands.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John gasped, giving up his attempts of escape. Sherlock was rutting against him, rhythmically now, the long muscles of his torso all working towards the same goal. He was going to come, here, in the kitchen, all over John's stomach.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeated, an answering hardness growing in his jeans, but Sherlock wasn't done talking yet. His voice had gained a ragged edge, as if he had trouble keeping his thoughts together, as if he didn't quite get enough oxygen into his lungs.

“I want to see you with a gun,” he confessed, moving faster now, keeping John firmly in place with his words as much as his body. “You'd surely be magnificent.”

“You already have,” John reminded him and Sherlock groaned, pressed his forehead into John's temple, breathed loudly into his shoulder. 

“Can't – remember – it,” he panted, and then his hands were on John's hips, pressing him close with white crushing fingers, leaving marks, and his pants became grunts.

“Mycroft will – ,” John started, alarmed, but he was cut out.

“See,” Sherlock supplied. “ _Yes._ Sir, _John_ , please, may I – ,” his movements became jerky, uncoordinated, until he was desperately chasing the evasive zenith of an orgasm, seemingly trapped on that steep edge, unable to go over it, but just as impossible to back down from it. In an instant, his pants became whimpers, the steely hold of his fingers turned into a weak embrace. His skin, so sweaty against John's chest, hot and reddened. His eyes, closed in what seemed to be pain. 

“May you? _Oh_ , Sher-, 'course. Come on, come for me, come now,” John chanted, his arms free now to steady his lover, to press his leaking erection tighter into his own skin. “Come on, _mark me_ ,” and Sherlock let out a litany of sounds, not even words, pouring from his mouth like an avalanche. And then he was convulsing against John, pushing into him, and John could feel the hot, slick wetness spreading between them before Sherlock tumbled, would have gone crashing down without John's arms around his back. Shivering, then, clinging to John's arms to steady himself. It took John a moment to realise there were words now, hidden into loud inhalations.

“What?”

“Six – minutes,” Sherlock replied and let go of him, staggered to lean at the kitchen table. “Have fun.” He looked utterly debauched and shameless with it, his cock still twitching, still at half-mast, and John wasted at least twenty seconds just staring at him.

“Aren't you going to –,” he started, gesturing at the tightness inside his own jeans. Sherlock smirked at him. _Smirked._ The atrocious bastard.

“Certainly not. You only have time for either cleaning yourself up or bringing yourself off. Choose, but choose fast. We wouldn't want to keep Mycroft waiting. But don't worry. He's going to see, whatever you decide.”

–

That utter, unbelievable, heinous, _son of a bitch._

–

He made it to the street with a murderous mind and a minute to spare. The black car with darkened windows was already waiting, and he slipped in, still buttoning his jacket up, not paying very much attention to the driver. A youngish colt, he seemed to be. Not in a suit.

Wait a moment.

Since when had Mycroft's minions been anything less than impeccably dressed?

He turned towards the not-Anthea sitting beside him, his mouth already forming the question, when the truth registered.

Blonde hair, even though Mycroft had always preferred brunettes. Short, clad in jeans. Eyes cold and a bit surprised. That purse.

Mary.

“I had thought we might need to persuade you a little more,” she said as a greeting. “Jack, the doors and drive, _now_.”

The driver's palm hit the child safety lock button half a second before John reached for the door. The car jumped forward abruptly, Jack swore and glanced at the rear window. He was young, dark-haired and clearly out of his depth. Nevertheless, he managed to settle to the pace of the traffic, took them north past Regent's Park.

John relaxed back into the seat. No use trying to force the door open, he'd take his chance when the car stopped again. After all, they had Mary's gun now, safely tucked away at Baker Street. He very much doubted she owned two.

Too bad he was going to be late for his meeting with Mycroft, however. He hoped being kidnapped by someone else counted as an acceptable apology. You never knew, not with the Holmeses.

“Mary,” he said coldly. He doubted this was meant to be a courteous visit, not after the way she had shown her hand by shooting Sherlock. She was desperate to get back home, and somehow, she seemed to think that kidnapping him would help her.

“John,” she returned, the ice as evident in her voice as it had been in his. “You didn't call. I gave you my number, but you didn't call.”

_[“I gave you my number. Thought you might call.”]_

No, it was a coincidence. Nothing more than a coincidence. Mary was petite, she was a librarian, she was – the person who had shot Sherlock.

“Well, _you_ pointed a gun at my – ”

“Your what? John, you're _not_ a local. There's nothing for you here. You should've listened to me,” she interrupted. “I tried to tell you.”

“You pulled the trigger! You actually pulled the trigger on him!”

“And I should have aimed at his head!” 

Her answer was a whip, quick and hateful, and it brought a terrified silence with it. Jack slouched his shoulders, kept his eyes on the road, his fingers tight and unhappy around the steering wheel. John breathed through his fury, in and out until he felt he could move without breaking something, without strangling her.

“What. Do you. Want?”

Mary widened her eyes, and suddenly she looked young and innocent, just a girl far away from home. John felt sick, looked out through the gritty window rather than at her. God, what was she? What had she been?

“I just want to go back,” she said, and her voice was small and teary even if her eyes weren't. “It's the only thing I ever wanted. Please, John. Help me.”

How _dared_ she.

“How can you? How can you do the things you've done, hurt him, take me away, and then _ask for my help_? Don't you have any sense of decency in you? Well, newsflash. No. I won't help you.”

“It really would be easier if you said yes, mister Watson,” Jack put in, and his voice sounded as timid as the rest of him looked. He shot an anxious look at John through the mirror, before his eyes flicked worriedly over to Mary.

“It's doctor Watson to you,” John replied, and the next second his head smashed against the darkened window, hard, as a small but very well aimed fist met his cheekbone. He let out a grunt and raised his hands to defend himself when another fist found its way to his stomach. His grunt became a groan, and then Mary was straddling him, her hands going for his throat.

On the front seat, Jack gave an audible squeak.

“Keep driving!” Mary snarled, punching John with her knee even as she settled into his lap.

Okay. So she wasn't going to fight fairly.

It wasn't that he had given much thought to the whole idea of wouldn't hit a girl. It was more that no girl had ever given him a reason to. And even now, he would have hesitated if not for the fact that Mary – _Mary had shot Sherlock_.

John snarled and let all civility melt from his features. She wanted a fight? He would give her a bloody fight. He grasped her wrists, twisting, and thrust his forehead up, aiming at her nose. Such a good thing he hadn't brought a seatbelt to this fight, he thought dimly as Mary's back hit the front seat half a second later. More room to manoeuvre.

But the space was very limited still, and Mary was definitely more agile of the two of them. Somehow she turned and sprang back from the back of the seat to lunge at him, the hard sole of her boot smashing into his groin, her fingers going for his throat again. John managed to get a punch in before she was back on his lap, his fist thumping into the soft flesh between her lower ribs, his other hand blocking the swing he saw coming for his jaw.

“Erm -,” Jack said nervously, but neither of them had time to answer him.

For a couple of seconds they strained against each other, neither of them ready to give up an inch, both of them panting, gulping for air, their bodies in a deadlock.

“You've done this before,” Mary said then, a brief flicker of amusement in her voice. Her eyes were, once again, very blue and very sincere, and John stepped right into it. He didn't let his guard down, not really, he just shifted a part of his attention to forming an answer, but that was enough. A terrific uppercut hit his jaw, sending him sprawling over the seat, and Mary's left hand disappeared into her purse, came back holding a needle. A hypodermic needle, and the sight of it sent John crawling back, instinctively, away from the perceived danger. He was punched for his efforts, a quick fist straight to the gut.

Jack gagged and turned the radio on, volume way too high. 

It was dawning to John right about then that he was about to get his arse kicked, spectacularly, by a lady. By a librarian in a worn pair of jeans and a bright red jacket, her only weapons a damn good uppercut and a hypodermic needle. He blinked, opened his jaw to check it was still attached, and Mary moved like a snake. The long, hollow needle was forced through his skin, its contents emptied before he had time to pull away, and then Mary tossed it, her hands going once more for his throat.

She had such small fingers, short nails, painted red. They would leave marks. John scratched at them, felt his fingers go numb.

The voice on the radio sang about never caring about anything. Jack drove on.

John's stomach turned. Eyes closed. Pressure. Around his throat. Inside his lungs. He felt heavy. His head thrummed. Sounds became thinner, then stopped. He kept his hands over Mary's, lax.

At last, nothing.

–

The return of consciousness was a slow, confused business. He didn't jerk awake but rather surfaced into a dream, his tired brain magicking up comfortable illusions of home, of firelight and deep laughter. It was a pleasant dream, but only a momentary escape: quite soon his real predicament forced itself known through the tightness of the ropes around his chest, arms and feet. _Bound_ , he thought, wearily. _Dry_.

Rags. Rags in his mouth, keeping him silent. They tasted of dust and old clothes and blood. _Blood_.

He blinked, opened his eyes to the darkness. His lashes felt crusty, and the very effort to move them almost sent him retching. _Don't._

_Can't throw up. Gagged._

Concussion, probably, from repeated hits to his head. He blinked carefully, and when the nausea stayed down he raised his chin from his chest, tried to take in his surroundings. _Door_.

It was the only point of interest in the unlit room. A sliver of light snaked through from under it, enough for him to map the rest of the space. It was a small unfurnished room, some kind of pantry probably, with shelves lining the walls and an old rug thrown on the floor. _Get out_.

It was easier thought than done. His limbs were secured to the chair, which was too big for this space, too heavy to move. It was probably brought here to hold him, then. No reason keeping a chair like that in a room like this otherwise.

At least it was padded.

Very slowly, very carefully, he straightened his slumped back, waiting for the queasy feeling to subside. Sitting up gave him a modicum of calmness, an illusion of control. He worked his tongue against the old rag in his mouth, trying to push it aside. Breathing would be so much easier if he could – just – 

The door burst open. A flash of light fell over him, spear-sharp, blinding. _Don't. Throw. Up. Breathe. Through the nose. Through the nose. It's all right._

“Are we awake yet?”

It was Mary's voice, and John had no intention of opening his eyes just to see if she was alone or not.

“Great,” Mary said and sounded genuinely satisfied. John knew better. The woman was a bloody good actress, if nothing else. “You'll gather yourself for a moment, and then we'll talk.” A sound of light steps moving away, leaving him alone with the pain and the light.

Time passed. John got his breathing and his churning insides under control, peeked from under the almost-shut eyelids. Little by little, he opened his eyes, until the light stopped needling him, until he could see again.

Yep. A pantry. And a sorry one, too. The shelves were almost empty, save for a couple of cans of beer and a lonely-looking bag of chips. And knives. Lots and lots of knives. Not nearly all of them had straight blades. Not nearly all of them were clean.

_Oh._

_This might be a bit worse._

_Think about something else, NOW._

The problem was, there wasn't much else in the room to distract him. The silent threat of the knives stared at him from every wall, the door was left carelessly open but only led to a featureless corridor. The only colourful thing in the room was the old rug. It, at least, had stripes. Yellow, green, red. Then a smudge of something brownish on the next stripes of yellow and green. _Don't look at it too closely._ Then red again. Repeat ad nauseam.

“Ahem,” said Mary, and John tore his gaze from the scenery.

She wasn't alone. By her side stood a mountain of a man, one with dispassionate eyes and a practically set mouth, short-haired and heavily tattooed, the kind of man who looked like he knew why there was a need for such a formidable collection of blades in such a little room. Next to her, Mary looked like a child, fair and dainty. Little Red Riding Hood and the big bad wolf.

“John, I want you to meet Sebastian. He – reminds me of somebody I knew. He was given to me to help with our little problem.”

“Just call me Colonel,” said Sebastian with a nasty little bow of his head, and circled behind John, making it impossible to see the both of them at the same time.

“Darling miss Mary here has told me all about you,” he continued, almost conversationally. “She said that you've been a naughty boy, that you stole her toys and the keys to her house. Doesn't sound quite so bad to me, but you know what they say.”

Suddenly there was a knife pushing against his chin, forcing his head up to meet Sebastian's cold gaze.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” he quoted, and then John felt the press of another blade, below the first one, resting over his throat, over the pulse hammering inside his vulnerable skin. Sebastian looked away, over his head to Mary, leaving John with a forced view of his upper torso. It was distressingly muscular.

“He's all yours,” Sebastian said, and there was something here, something that he should note, should understand, if only his frantic brain would co-operate.

“Oh John, I had hoped we could be friends,” said Mary and then, alarmingly, sat astride his legs, pressing against his trapped body. And John couldn't even see her, couldn't lower his chin enough to see anything else than Sebastian.

“I think, if we had met under different circumstances, it might have worked between us, you know? But you had to be stubborn. You broke it, John.” Her voice was sad, regretful.

He couldn't exactly answer, gagged and pinned as he was between the two of them, but Mary seemed to be waiting for something and Sebastian looked a bit too bored. He groaned into the rags, carefully. Very, very carefully. Mary wiggled on him, pushing him harder into the chair.

“Isn't it such a lucky thing for you that I'm a forgiving soul? Think about it for a moment, John. All you need to do is work with me a little, and you can literally _wish_ yourself away from here!” She giggled, pinched his cheek and climbed off.

_Sebastian's jaw. Sebastian's arms. Sebastian's tattoos._

“Give him a little incentive, would you?” Mary said, and a truly terrible smile appeared on Sebastian's face.

_What are you looking at, John Watson? What are you seeing?_

“Gladly,” he said, and his voice was rough and eager.

_Yellow green red yellow green blood red breathe yellow green -_

The knife under his chin surged up.

_red_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song on the car radio is Metallica's Nothing Else Matters. [Apocalyptica's cover](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbTozgoj9OQ) of this song is my muse for this whole fic.  
> The sadness is John's. The fury is Sherlock's. Can you hear when they're together?


	23. The Importance of Little Insignificant Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this Sebastian really likes knives. If that bothers you, you might want to skip the start of this chapter.

Sebastian, it turned out, fancied himself something of an artist. After that first cruel stab of over-excitement he started speaking, chatting really, showing off his morbid collection and extensive skills with it. When he wasn't speaking he was humming (and it didn't take John more than a couple of seconds to recognise that familiar nursery rhyme and realise that he was meant to be the lamb in this context), and when he wasn't cutting he was worshipping the slow glide of blood on steel or on John's skin. He seemed mesmerised by it, his eyes huge and admiring, and John treasured every pause he took, every second he could spend gathering his breath and courage for the next blade, the next bundle of nerve endings to be wrecked. There were a plenty of both.

The rag in his mouth was soaked through with his saliva, sweat and tears, his body a cacophony of throbbing danger signals by the time Mary returned to the little room. It took John a long moment to realise she was there, his eyes open but unseeing, all of his attention turned inwards, to getting that next breath through his restricted airways, to blinking the sweat away from his blurry eyes. He was sprawled on the chair like a ragdoll, almost grateful for the ropes keeping him in place, safe from the old _yellow green no point denying it bloody rusty red_ rug. Sebastian was rummaging behind him, looking for that one Indian heirloom blade he had promised they'd try next.

“Oh boys, the mess you've made,” Mary tutted in an unknowing sick parody of Mrs Hudson, taking her place on John's lap once again. The pang of pain her added weight sent through his system was enough to bring him back to the present, and he couldn't help the shiver of fear when he saw that Mary, too, had a small blade in her hand. She felt it, of course, and saw the way his eyes locked on it, and pressed a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“Don't worry, darling, I'm sure Sebastian has taken great care of you,” she whispered to his ear, her voice taking the tone of a mother speaking to a petulant child. “But he's always been so particular about his little toys and their proper uses. I brought this for a very different reason altogether.” Behind them, Sebastian gave an unsatisfied grunt.

And then her weight was gone, and John couldn't see her for a heartstopping moment, but soon the cruel pressure on his arms disappeared and he collapsed forward. She had cut the ropes, he realised belatedly when his hands swung down and his head hit his legs, the needling of returning blood flow already starting in those long-constricted limbs. Somewhere, Mary laughed. It was a pleasant sound, like birds singing, and John had to pay attention to his breathing once more, to fight down that urge to either hyperventilate or throw up. _Gagged_ , he reminded himself once more, quite redundantly by that point. _Don't. Can't._

The ropes around his legs and ankles gave way next, and John found himself on the hateful rug after all, flapping about like a newborn or a bird straight out of its egg, searching for up and down until strong arms wrapped around his body and jerked him up. He staggered between Sebastian and Mary, clinging to them with weak hands until the room straightened itself and he realised he could stand by himself after all, albeit on unwilling, trembling legs. As soon as he managed that Sebastian pushed him forward, and he was led away to the brightly-lit corridor, past a couple of closed doors and finally through a sturdy-looking metal door to another room. All the way there, his head was spinning and his sight threatened to blacken out, but somehow the corridor was passed and he stepped into a – living room.

It was an absurdly normal living room. There was a television, a sofa and some chairs, and there were people sitting on those chairs. They were pale, scared people, with their eyes on the floor and their hands on their laps. Two women and two men, one of whom John recognised as Jack the driver. He was sitting together with one of the women, a middle-aged brunette with tear tracts on her cheeks and a habit of sniffing and brushing her nose with her arm every few moments. Jack was red-eyed too, but unlike the others he couldn't stop staring at John with an expression somewhere between guilt and fascinated horror.

There weren't any mirrors to check, but considering the way the room kept on swaying and the corners of it sank into blurred greyness, John suspected he wasn't a pretty sight. Sebastian hadn't cut deep, but what he lacked in depth he had made up in volume.

“Oh God,” Jack whispered before clamping a hand over his mouth, suddenly looking sick. 

Sebastian led John to the middle of the room and left him there, taking a couple of steps back. John stood where he was put, slowly dripping blood and staring at the subdued people in front of him. It had all become quite dreamlike a long time ago, his senses pushed into a kind of dull acceptance which he would have usually hated in himself. But drugged and beaten and then tor- _cut_ as he was, this detachment seemed to come naturally. And so he stood, and blinked, and waited what would happen next. 

Sebastian was blocking the door, pointed out the part of his brain which hadn't given up but kept on looking for ways to escape, or even understand the situation. That thought almost made him laugh. He was bleeding, gagged, possibly concussed and swaying on his feet, and still Sebastian seemed to think he'd be fit enough to try something. As it was, he needed all his strength not to fall on his face there and then, in front of all those silent people staring – or pointedly not staring – at him.

That small part of his mind which sounded remarkably like Sherlock was stomping the ground, insisting that he stay alert and stop being predictable. He straightened his stance, gave his shoulders a painful roll. It was only then that he realised that his wrists were free and nothing prevented him from removing the terrible gag.

 _Dull dull dull_ , went Sherlock's voice in his head. He raised his hands, only to have Mary grabbing his right arm and rest her head against his cheek. He felt violently ill.

“John, everybody,” she said brightly, playing a good hostess without a trace of irony in her voice. Jack and the woman next to him shuddered, and the other man let out a sound not unlike a whine of a hurt animal. Mary's gaze locked in on him in an instant.

“Now now, Matthew, there's no reason to sound quite so excited,” she snapped at the scared man. “After all, it was your decision which brought our guest here. The least you can do is to make him feel he's welcome.”

The man – Matthew – closed his mouth with a snap and burrowed further into his chair. He was a pitiful sight with dark circles under his eyes and bitten nails, bony and haggard and in a desperate need of a shower.

 _Although I might not be the best judge of that_ , John thought, trying to claw the ties behind his head open with just one hand and squirm free of Mary's hold with the other. It seemed like his fingers weren't co-operating, and his shaky, half-hearted attempts ended unsuccessfully when a new voice spoke.

“For God's sake, Mary, stop these theatrics.” It was the last woman, the oldest of the lot, and even sitting down with the others she carried an air of authority on her shoulders. “At least ungag the poor man, can't you see how he's struggling? I believe you've made your point very clear already.”

“But it's you who needs to understand it the most,” Mary answered coldly. “Apart from him, of course. I'm not sure whether you're quite convinced yet. Maybe you'd like to take a moment alone with Sebastian?”

That got the others moving. Sebastian took an interested step towards them. Matthew sprang up to stand in front of the old woman, and both of the others let out horrified cries.

“Don't you touch her, not her, don't you dare!” Matthew shouted, raising his hands to shield the woman behind him. “How can you even think about - ? After everything she's done for us, after all these years - ” 

“Shut up!” Mary interrupted him, scowling. “I've done just as much! I've protected you, and lied for you, and bled for you, and still you whine! How dare _you_! About _her_ ,” she shot a poisonous look at the old woman, “I want to make the situation clear to her.”

“It's crystal,” said the old woman, her voice like ice. “Now, the gag if you please. I'd really rather not have him drooling on my floor.”

“Out of the question,” Mary snapped and cast a look towards Sebastian. “As you should well know. I know what you're playing at, Li, and I assure you, it won't work.” She stopped, schooled her expression back to the horrendous, fraudulent pleasantry and turned to John. “Now, if you please, let's proceed with things. Forgive my haste, but I so miss my old haunts. Don't you?”

John stared at her and her little knife at turns. Was this it, then? Had Mary really found a way to whisk them away from here, back to that other place, and with something as simplistic as blood from his veins as the ticket to get there?

“It's easy, John,” Mary purred into his ear. “All of this can be over in a heartbeat. We'll leave these nasty people here, we'll go home. Your real home, John. You're going to see your real friends, your real family. Don't you want to do that? Just work with me. We can stop this boring masquerade so easily. Just trust me.”

She had her knife in her hand and an expression of utter conviction in her eyes. John took an instinctual step back, but Sebastian with his broad chest had moved to stand close and gripped his wrists, bringing them together behind his back once again. Mary's face, her blue eyes and button nose and blonde hair, told him that whatever she was saying, however this was going to end, he wouldn't leave this room alive. He'd seen fervency before, and zeal, but never quite so insane, and never wielding a weapon pointed at him.

 _Trust you? How could I? There's only one person in the whole universe I trust, and it sure as hell isn't you._ He shook his head jerkily, causing Mary's eyes to narrow dangerously, and then Jack jumped up.

“No, no, wait!” He cried. “I've changed my mind! I'll do it. Just let him go.”

“It's a bit late now, love,” Mary answered, never moving her eyes from John's face. “I like this one better anyway. He at least hit me back.” She raised the little blade and John pressed against Sebastian, the threat coming from her overriding John's anxiety to get away from him for a second. The blade scratched against his jugular, and Mary's mouth turned into the sweetest smile.

“Clap your hands if you believe, doctor Watson,” she gasped, almost orgasmic, and there was that kind of fire in her eyes which had burned whole villages down during the crusades. John leant against Sebastian, realised how fucked up he was trying to find security in a guy with a knife collection and a thirst for blood, and started struggling in earnest.

“There, there, love, just let it happen,” Mary crooned, and then the room exploded in shouting voices and screams. A soundwave, an earthquake, a fucking bomb went through the room behind his back. The bomb kind of had the voice of Mycroft Holmes, but mostly it had the voice of God.

“ **KNEEL** ,” the voice said, if thunder could be described so plainly, leaving John staggering, bereft of the pressure against back as the bulk of Sebastian disappeared. He started turning around, ears ringing, but Mary grabbed him again and thrust the knife over his throat.

“Don't shoot, I have him, don't shoot!” She shouted, and her voice sounded more real than John had heard ever before. She sounded like steel, sharp and cold, and the trace of Sherlock in John's mind calmly pointed out that he had less than a second to act if he wanted to avoid a hostage situation here. He was standing between Mary and whoever it was at the doorway, and Mary had her eyes trained over John's shoulder. She wasn't really paying attention to him, and his arms were free. There wouldn't come a better time. Quickly, he turned back toward her, momentarily easing the pressure of the blade over his skin. A rush of adrenaline pulsed through him, helping him regain some of his lost strength, and without another thought he attacked.

It was a flurry of kicking limbs and scratching nails, and John felt the little blade slide over his back, downwards, as he launched himself at his opponent. He heard a surprised grunt, and then the room was tilting and there were feet over him and outstretched hands grasping at him and he'd really appreciate some oxygen right about now, really appreciate somebody taking this bloody gag off him.

He had his hands around Mary's wrists, forcing the knife down, and someone was pulling him away.

“Let go, you can let go now,” said a voice he didn't recognise. No way was he going to let go. The woman was a psycho, and there were unarmed civilians in the room. He gripped tighter, hardly noticing the grey edges of his vision creeping back, the jagged unevenness of his own laborious breathing.

“Get away from him you moron, can't you see he's almost out of it,” snarled a petulant voice he _did_ know, and the very idea that Sherlock was somewhere nearby throwing insults like it was just another Friday was enough to ease the pounding in his ears. He realised that he was half sitting on Mary, pinning her to the ground, and that there were two pairs of hands on his shoulders trying to get his attention. A pair of sleek shoes appeared on his field of vision.

“It's all right, John,” Sherlock said. “She won't harm anyone anymore. You can let the _professionals_ take over now. Can you stand?”

Of course he could stand! What did the man take him for, a kitten? He shot a furious look at Sherlock's perfectly pressed trouser cuffs and gave one more warning glare to Mary before rising to his feet.

The previously square room went circular very fast. He had time to hear Sherlock swear, from somewhere far away, and marvel at the blinds shutting over his vision, and then, for a blessed moment, he stopped hurting.

–

“ _Fuck_ ,” he said, and only understood afterwards that this meant his mouth was finally free of the disgusting, slobbery cloth. He promptly turned to his side and threw up.

“Seriously, Sherlock?” Mycroft said somewhere close by, the two words ripe with disapproval.

“Yes,” answered the voice of everything John cared for smugly, and then he was being hauled up into a sitting position and a glass of water was offered to him. He opened his eyes to find himself still in the living room, on that old sofa, with Sherlock kneeling in front of him and pressing the glass into his hands. Mary was nowhere to be seen, and the other people of Mary's group were presently being led out of the room by Mycroft's silent minions. Curiously, Sebastian stayed on the floor, handcuffed and looking more than a little dazed by the goings-on, his eyes fixed on Mycroft's umbrella in what seemed to be intrigued apprehension.

“You carried me here?” John demanded, accepting the glass with shaking hands.

“It was me or Mycroft,” Sherlock shrugged, and John could hear the older brother muttering something about _blasted legwork_. “Would you have preferred him?” 

“I would have preferred not be carried at all,” John muttered. “And anyway, what took you so bloody long? That guy is way too fond of his collection, if you ask me.”

“You can thank my dear brother for taking his time,” Sherlock spat out, glaring at Mycroft over his shoulder. The elder Holmes seemed to be immersed in his phone, but John had no doubt nothing in the room went unobserved by him. “He insisted on things like _surveillance_ , and that was _after_ he failed to tell me you hadn't showed up as promised. He proposed you had a _history of suspicious behaviour_.”

“Ta, Mycroft,” John sighed wearily, slumping across the sofa. “I've always enjoyed a round of torture in the evening.”

There it was, he'd said it aloud. He'd admitted it. The thought left him feeling used and empty. Sherlock took away the glass before it dropped from his trembling hands and a quick shot of something like sympathy flashed over his features.

Oh yes. Sherlock knew a thing of two about cutting, himself.

“We're going to have matching scars,” John tried joking, but the words fell flat from his mouth. Sherlock puffed up like a peacock.

“I don't scar,” he pointed out haughtily, but rose elegantly to his feet and stalked across the room to where Sebastian was still kneeling.

“And you,” he spat, “if you've left one lasting mark on his skin, I swear I'll break into my dear brother's lair and crucify you myself.”

Sebastian gave him a look of supreme arrogance.

“You keep your mouth shut, you dirty little sub,” he sneered. “You're not worthy of standing up in these people's presence. Me, I'm a master of my art. Your precious dom will be all right, toy. In fact, I'm sure me and Mr Holmes can come to a mutually profitable arrangement here.”

Mycroft had lowered his phone and glanced at him, his expression one of pure indifference.

“Silence,” he said lazily, and Sebastian closed his mouth with a snap, leering at Sherlock all the while. To John's surprise Sherlock, too, dropped the matter and returned to his side. He gave John one calculating look and nodded to himself.

“You're fit to walk,” he declared. “Come on, get up and let's go back home.”

“Home?” John asked, his mind spinning.

“It will have to do,” Sherlock said brusquely. “We can't take you to a hospital for obvious reasons, and staying here has rather lost its appeal. It's Baker Street or Mycroft's lair for you.”

“Baker Street,” John answered immediately. “But – obvious reasons?”

Sherlock huffed.

“Come on, John,” he chastised. “One blood test, and they'd have some pretty interesting results, don't you think? No, it's easier for everyone involved to self-medicate you this time. Up you get, now.” He hooked an arm under John's shoulders and helped him up. The room swayed for a moment, but quite soon settled into the correct position. John gave a grateful sigh but didn't push Sherlock away. He doubted he could stand by himself just yet.

Mycroft took one glance at them and grimaced.

“Really, Sherlock? Don't you find this a bit – juvenile, at your age?”

“He's mine,” Sherlock said sullenly. “You can't have him.”

“And I'm certain you've realised,” Mycroft stated, scrutinising the tip of his umbrella-of-the-day, “that had you not distracted him, he wouldn't have been in such a hurry to actually pick the wrong car. None of this was necessary.”

“And I hope you've realised he doesn't have anything to do with your little bomb problem,” Sherlock muttered rebelliously. “ _What_ , now?”

John kicked his ankle, his eyes glued on Sebastian's kneeling form. It was all coming back to him now, the panic and the avoidance and the insistence to think about anything else than the sharp, sharp knives and the promise of agony. Insignificant things. Things like the rug, and the pictures inked into his captor's skin.

“The tattoo,” he said as the taste of bile had receded, as soon as he trusted his tongue enough to speak.

This statement was met by twin looks of Holmesian blankness.

“Kittens,” he tried, but that didn't go through any better. If anything, it caused Sherlock to bend down and peer into his pupils, worry and confusion battling for dominance in his expression.

“Allister Merritt,” John tried once more, gesturing at Sebastian. “Him. Kittens. Would you just look at him!”

And finally, _finally_ , Sherlock understood, and he looked, and he nearly let John fall down when he saw.

There, hidden in plain sight in the middle of the skulls and roses and weeping angels of Sebastian skin, were two fluffy kittens, playing with a ball of yarn, surrounded by simple rhymes.


	24. Holmesian Relations

The next couple of days were spent alternatively resting and soothing an increasingly antsy Sherlock. The infuriating man took him home, dumped him into the living room and stormed back outside without a word spoken in between. John didn't have to gawk at the door for long, though, before Mrs Hudson came cooing up the stairs. She stopped dead when she saw him.

“He said there was something you needed,” she stammered, her face going white. “He didn't mention all the blood.”

“He wouldn't, would he?” John sighed and let his chin drop to his chest. There wasn't an inch of him which didn't hurt. His tongue still remembered the taste of the rag in his mouth and his muscles felt like they hadn't since he'd entered that first army boot camp. His eyelids dropped shut without bothering to ask for permission.

“What happened? What do you need?”

John hummed a disinterested reply. He wondered if he could curl up and fall asleep on the chair. Before he quite managed that, a gentle hand petted his shoulder.

“I'm sorry, dear. What was that?”

Oh yes. Maybe going to sleep now wouldn't be very wise.

“Painkillers would be lovely, Mrs H.”

“Oh, of course. Just you stay there. I'll see what I can do.”

She walked briskly into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cupboards. _Brave woman. Brave, brave woman. Stay away from the upper shelves._

“Bathroom,” John called, or tried to. His voice wasn't much more than a croak, but it still seemed to do the trick. Soon he heard the tap running, and then there was a pill on his palm and a glass of water pressed into his other hand. The cool liquid felt like a blessing going down his throat.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“My poor John,” Mrs Hudson muttered and started cleaning his face with a warm, damp cloth. It felt really, really nice. He was about twenty seconds from dreaming.

“Shouldn't fall asleep,” John instructed her, or tried to. He had some trouble getting the facts straight. Was there any danger in that anymore? He wasn't sure. Had he slept in the cab?

He had a vague memory of being pressed against a warm coat and listening to Sherlock's steady heartbeat until his own had obediently started to follow its rhythm. He was pretty sure Sherlock had said something unforgivable to the cabbie. He was almost certain he had protested. He was adamant he remembered long fingers petting his back and his hair and pushing him down until he was resting over that coat, on Sherlock's lap. After that, the rest of the journey was spent in a misty twilight, until Sherlock had coaxed him up and up and up and then they'd been at home, in the living room, and he had collapsed into his chair. Which was where he was now. Wasn't it? Where was Sherlock?

“Sherlock?”

“Shh, dear, he'll be right back. You look better already. Shall I put the telly on? Or the kettle? Or both?”

Oh. It was Mrs Hudson. Of course it was her, they had been chatting a moment ago. He'd forgotten.

“Please.” Yes to all. Tea sounded marvellous. It would be warm and it wouldn't taste like sweat, blood or puke. Just what he needed.

Even the sound of boiling water made him feel marginally better.

They sat in silence, John mostly contemplating his tea, Mrs Hudson pretending not to stare at him. The newsreader spoke about some trouble in London. John found out he really couldn't concentrate on listening. Something about traffic. No matter.

It was only when Mrs Hudson sprang up that he realised there were steps on the stairs, and soon after Sherlock exploded into the room.

“There, fix him,” he commanded, and John opened his eyes to the sight of billowing coat and blazing eyes stalking towards him. There was someone behind Sherlock's back, someone John couldn't quite see. Someone petite. He heard a nervous cough, followed by a sharp inhalation. Stress, alarm.

Even after Mrs Hudson's little cleaning operation he wasn't a pretty sight, then.

“Erm, I mostly work with dead people,” said Molly's anxious voice.

“He's not far from that. Put him together again.”

“Erm,” said Molly again.

_“Please.”_

John let his head fall back again and counted the seconds. It wasn't long at all before soft, hesitating fingers found their way to his skin. Protesting wasn't worth it. In the end, they'd all do exactly what Sherlock wanted. Every single one of them.

–

He was in Sherlock's bed, clothed in Sherlock's pyjamas, which would have been ridiculous if he had any energy left to care about things like that. He couldn't remember how he had ended up there, either. Typical.

“Not carried,” Sherlock said close to his ear. John opened his eyes to the dim light of late evening or early morning. Sherlock was sitting next to him, his laptop open over his knees, his forehead wrinkled in concentration and – impatience? He gave John an impervious once-over and went back to whatever it was he was doing on the computer.

“Really, John. One has to wonder how you've survived to this day.”

“Hmm?”

“Your body is astonishingly inefficient.”

“Hmm.” His thoughts were slipping, dreamy. Molly had probably given him something intravenous. Such a sweet girl, Molly Hooper. He didn't appreciate her nearly enough.

“Healing. I mean when it comes to healing. There's hardly any change to be observed.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“It's been what? Nine hours? Ten?” His voice was surprisingly steady. An improvement, right there for Sherlock to observe.

“Seven hours, fifty-two minutes.”

Very early morning, then. Even John's messed-up brain didn't take long to figure out that Sherlock hadn't slept during the night. He gave a solemn sigh. The coming days already promised to be hell.

“My point exactly. Give it a bit of time, would you?”

“I've _given_ it time! Almost eight hours, and yet you aren't any better! How can you stand it?”

John allowed himself a private, lopsided grin. The expression made his face hurt, so he settled for a frown. Meanwhile, the world's only consulting fidgeter kept on stabbing his toes into the sheets. 

“By this time, my body would be well on its way to recovery. This is unacceptably sloppy behaviour from your part. Really, John. Are you even trying?”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes!”

“Shut up. You aren't helping.”

“But – ”

“Just! Tell me what you're doing.”

Sherlock went silent. The longer the silence lasted, the more suspicious John became.

“Sherlock? What is it?”

The sigh, when it came, was crestfallen.

“There are thirty-eight places in your body where he hurt you. Out of those spots, seventeen bled profusely. Eleven demanded stitches. You can thank Molly later. She says there are going to be lasting scars, because she hasn't had much practise in stitching up live people. You can shout at her later as well if you want to. Of the remaining twenty-one wounds, fifteen can be classified as stabs, four as scrapes and two as shallow slices. I made a – a table. Tables. To keep track of your progress.” His fingers were hovering over the keyboard, indecisive. His voice was tight.

John understood.

Uncertainty. Sherlock didn't know how he could help, so he went back to his basic mode, analysing. He was waiting for John's verdict now. Was this all right? Was this crossing a line?

John was pretty sure there wasn't a line to be crossed, or maybe they had already crossed all of them. He also knew Sherlock's brain would eat itself alive over this whole fiasco if he allowed him to continue on these tracks. He remembered Mycroft's words in Li's flat, his implication that all this could have been avoided if Sherlock had behaved in a different way.

If there was one unacceptable thing in this whole situation, it was that. And it had to be redeemed, right now. Vocally.

“Sherlock.”

“And you're refusing to get better.” Moody, now. Petulant. Stupid John and his stupid, inefficient body.

He wanted to smile again, but opted against it.

“It's not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“How am I supposed to get anything done when you're bleeding into my bed?”

No, smiling was obligatory after all. Hurting didn't matter, it would pass.

“Should I go to my own room?”

Sherlock grasped his wrist which, miraculously, was free of any plasters, bandages or dressings. The message was very clear, despite staying unspoken. John was to remain here.

“But I provoked Mary. And my stupid game caused you to enter the wrong car. Which wouldn't have been there at all if I hadn't nicked your phone. Which I only did because my curiosity wouldn't let the matter alone. And now you're the one who's lying there, drugged up to your eyeballs. So your argument is invalid. It's my fault.”

“It wasn't your fault,” John repeated. “You weren't the one holding the knife. You weren't the one giving the orders. You couldn't have foreseen this happening.”

“I _should_ have. I met her. I talked to her. I should've seen it. And I didn't. And now look at you!”

“It wasn't your fault, or my fault either,” John whispered and burrowed closer to Sherlock's warm legs. “Please, Sherlock. Don't blame yourself. No one else does.”

He yawned, felt his eyes slipping closed again. Fighting the all-encompassing tiredness seemed futile.

“All right. I'm going back to sleep now. Not your fault.”

“John!”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Are you – are you all right?”

Finally, the right question, the real reason why Sherlock had chosen to camp on the bed by his recovering lover. John turned his hand on the grasp, held Sherlock's wrist gently.

“I'll be.”

“John.”

“Yes?”

“I'm – very fond of you.”

“Yes, Sherlock. I know.”

He fell asleep to the gentle press of soft lips against his own.

–

By the third day he was much better, and Sherlock was eyeing Mary's gun with growing interest. The detective had taken to pacing and punishing the violin at turns, then sighing and staring out of the windows, but no begging was enough to make him leave the flat. John wished for a case, any case. Even Mrs Hudson losing her keys would do. Anything to distract the rampaging maniac from destroying their home, and John's eardrums while he was at it. The walls had remained bullet hole- free up to this point. It would be a shame to break that record streak. There had to be something else than this self-imposed resting period for him to think about.

“But what about Mary and the others, I thought you'd be interested in – ”

“No,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Well, the Seropidol thing then?”

“ _No_.”

But the keys remained accounted for, and Sherlock's temper grew fouler by the hour. Then, in the late afternoon, a miracle happened. Sherlock stopped his agitated rounds and came to stand in front of John, violin still poised over his shoulder.

“Mycroft is coming for a visit.”

This was declared in a way that suggested a third world war was about to start at the same time. John blinked.

“Oh,” he said.

Sherlock just stared at him, clearly expecting a more dramatic response.

“All right?” John offered.

Sherlock snorted. John tried to figure it out, but this agitation didn't make sense. Had all of today's suffering been due to Mycroft's imminent visit? The reason for his coming seemed pretty clear, at least.

“It's about Mary and Sebastian, I suppose?”

“Naturally.”

“But – that's good, isn't it?”

Sherlock flopped down into his own chair, tapping a restless rhythm into the floor with his bare feet, his squirming toes.

“None of it is good!” He declared viciously. “First he stole you, then he stole my case, and now he's dropping by, like it's nothing, to steal my oxygen as well!”

“Stole the case? Stole me? Sherlock, it's just Mycroft. You know how he is. He does what he wants to. What does it matter if he drops by? And, for your information, I'm right here. Not stolen at all. As for the case, I've been urging you to work on it for two days now.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. Actually groaned.

“Don't be ridiculous. How many times has he been here?”

“I find him sitting in my chair way too often, lecturing to you about one thing or another. It's a bit like pestilence. Can't get rid of him.” _Leaves you in a damn foul mood, too. Not that you can't manage that all by yourself._

“No! He absolutely doesn't! That's the one line he's kept, up to this point. Mycroft has _never_ been here.”

This was news to John.

“What? Never? But, why?”

“Yes, yes, why! Why is he coming now? Why not to send one of his little shadows, or text like a decent person? Why must he come to corrupt this place with his hideous presence?”

John shrugged, still musing over the fact that somehow, Sherlock had managed to convince his brother not to visit, ever. It was something the other one had never even dreamt about. Mycroft had always come and gone as he pleased, like a half-domesticated cat. But Sherlock stilled and turned to stare at him, his expression wild, the little _oh_ almost breaking free from his lips.

“You know what's going on!” He exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at stupefied John, who did no such thing. “You know something you haven't told me. What is it? What are you hiding from me?”

“I'm not hiding anything!” John protested before the truth registered. Oh but he was, although it wasn't about Sebastian or Mary. His shoulders slumped. This was what you got, trying to keep secrets from Sherlock. He'd discover them even when you didn't realise you had them. The man was a relentless bloodhound when he decided there was data to be had. Sherlock stared at him, his eyes narrowing. He smelled weakness, knew that he had found the right track. Still, John wasn't ready for his next question. He really should have known better by now.

“Who's Moriarty?”

_How? How can he possibly know?_ But then he remembered babbling about the spider in his shocked stupor, a long time ago.

_[Never seen you that agitated. Not even with Moriarty.]_

_Who's Moriarty_ , Sherlock had asked, and stupid John had told him not to worry, given Sherlock a golden ticket to puzzle-land. Such an idiotic mistake. Of course Sherlock wouldn't leave it alone, wouldn't lose his interest like that. Of course he'd remember, wonder about it, wait for a right moment to pounce. And hadn't he found a bloody bad one?

If the psychopath really had entered London and yet hadn't sought Sherlock out, John certainly didn't want to point the detective at his direction. Nothing but catastrophe came from the dance those two performed around each other. Nothing came out of it but burning and chlorine and the kind of fascination in Sherlock's voice he never wanted to witness again.

But this was Sherlock, who didn't need his words to work out his meaning. A flicker of his eyes, and then he was smiling an ugly smile.

“You're jealous,” he breathed, “but not like you were of Victor. And you're actually scared. Tell me, John, or I will send a word out and find out myself. What's Moriarty?”

John groaned. He didn't have any doubt Sherlock wouldn't follow through with his threat, and the idea of him spreading Moriarty's name among his homeless network, or whatever it was that he had here, was terrifying. There was no way the bloody madman wouldn't learn about that, wouldn't set his sights at Baker Street again. John remembered the explosions, the heat and weight of the parka, the terror in the captives' voices too well. That wouldn't, couldn't repeat here. He wouldn't let it happen. If he couldn't do anything else, then that. Prevent that. Remove the mystery. Expose the spider.

“Fine,” he said at last, “but we're waiting until Mycroft gets here.”

Sherlock looked appalled. “John!”

“I'm serious. Moriarty's not a game, Sherlock. He's not a case. He's very influential, and insane, and obsessed with you. We tried going against him, before. It doesn't work, people end up dead. He's got bombers and snipers and who knows what else, his tendrils are everywhere. You want to go after him? You'll need Mycroft and his resources.”

It was the sulkiest sulk he had ever witnessed. He grimaced.

“I don't like it either,” he confessed, “but those are my conditions. And no googling him either, Sherlock, he'd find out. Promise me that, and I'll tell you everything I know.”

The sullen lump in the opposite chair didn't bother answering him. John sighed. Some things stayed the same, from one universe to another. He hardened his voice, reached for the captain again.

“Sherlock?”

A dark, gloomy glance was shot his way. John stood up, more easily than during the previous days but still careful of his recovering body. He spread his arms, gestured at himself.

“The last time we met, he stuffed me into a coat full of explosives for fun. He threatens people. Owns people, kills. It's all the same for him. Please, Sherlock. Don't make this mistake again.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Very touching,” he observed. “You've, of course, misunderstood everything. But very touching anyway.”

John deflated. “What?”

“I don't care about your Moriarty,” Sherlock explained. “But Mycroft, on the other hand. I, we, we don't get along. I see you've got a different experience, but trust me here. I can't work with him.”

“Why?”

Sherlock gave an exasperated huff of air, sighed and squirmed, shook his head.

“Because he's him and I'm me,” he finally bit out, like it caused him physical pain. “Because I'm sub and he's the epitome of dominance. Because as soon as he enters the room he demands all of my attention. I can't even look at him in the eye, John. He's my _brother_ , for God's sake, we used to hate breakfast porridge together. Do you know why he hates legwork so much? He's _too effective_. His teams, made of the hardiest doms you can find, have trouble staying functional when he really lets it go. It's like you wanted to kill a fly, and you used a fucking nuclear bomb to do it. The only reason I didn't black out when he used the Voice in the flat was because I was wearing earplugs, headphones with blazing music on _and_ I'd used desensitiser beforehand. So no, we don't work together. And now he's coming. Here.”

In the stunned silence that followed, both of them could easily hear the front door opening downstairs. Sherlock gave the huge-eyed John a wild, frantic stare.

“Help me,” he whispered furiously, and then there were steps on the stairs, climbing up. Sole, sole, the click of an umbrella. Sole, sole, umbrella.

–

John stared at Sherlock, Sherlock stared at John, and Mycroft was halfway up the stairs. The whole situation was ridiculous, like something out of a cheap action film. They were absurd, these things Sherlock had admitted, but the raw vulnerability in his expression was far too real. Help him? How was John supposed to help him? Should he turn Mycroft away?

“Sit down, damn you,” Sherlock snarled and pushed him back into his chair, only to flop down in front of him, crossing his legs as he went. He grasped John's hand and placed it on his own shoulder, almost over his neck, and pushed into this improvised hold, sagging into a position of studied nonchalance, adopting his thinking pose. John had the presence of mind to close his mouth and lean back, and then the door opened. Mycroft Holmes entered the room with an air of judgement a mile wide, his eyes taking everything in with one long, easy glide over the furniture, before coming to rest on the two of them.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John said, struggling to keep his voice neutral, his body relaxed. To him, the man was just the same as he had always been. The superhuman terms Sherlock had used to describe him felt more and more displaced. Sure, he was a genius, but so was Sherlock. John had long since accustomed to being the slow one in the room. But – the other things. The other things just didn't sit well on those expensively-clad shoulders.

And yet.

It was true that he hadn't seen these brothers together before they'd teamed up to rescue him from Mary's clutches. And then he'd been dizzy and half-conscious for most of the time. And Mycroft seemed to prefer to talk to John if he could choose between them.

Case in point.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft replied, stepping delicately over the threshold, closing the door after him. “I see you've been – informed I was coming. I do trust I wasn't interrupting anything.”

“No,” said John at the same time as Sherlock gave a definite, if quiet “Yes.”

“Good,” declared Mycroft and walked to lean against their living room table, ignoring the stacks of magazines and newspapers laid on it. “I'll be brief. We have interrogated both Colonel Sebastian Moran and Mary Morstan, as well and the other people found in the flat. Their accounts are very similar to yours, John, and they're very careful of what they say about both Miss Morstan and Colonel Moran. Due to the uniformity of their experiences, plus a very interesting session with Li Bronner, I'm prepared to accept your – and her – theory as the likely truth, Sherlock.”

The tensely drawn muscles under John's hand jumped at that, the first phrase addressed directly to Sherlock, but he didn't say anything, didn't even nod his acknowledgement. Mycroft didn't seem to mind, didn't stop to wait for his brother to react, but rather kept on talking with the ease of someone used to giving briefings.

“These four people have been badly spooked and all suffer from various traumas, but their hands in the matter have been mostly tied. I have offered them all suitable jobs, given their – specialities, and I'm happy to say that they have all accepted. None of them will bother either of you any more. Now, Miss Morstan and the Colonel, however. They are the reason I deemed this visit necessary. John, have you told my brother about James Moriarty yet?”

“Not yet,” John answered, pressing his palm against the warm neck under it. Instantly, Sherlock pushed back, allowed the taut muscles to relax a little bit. “We were waiting for you to join us first.”

Mycroft nodded. “It's just as well,” he allowed and, for the first time, turned to look at his little brother when he talked to him. “He's an international terrorist with a very wide web of contacts around the globe. He recently surfaced in Afghanistan, only to disappear soon after and turn up right here in London. Doctor Watson has had earlier encounters with him and was able to tell me about his habits of operation. They have already proved beneficial in containing the damage he's able to wreak. Our friend the Colonel works directly for him.”

“Sebastian works for Moriarty?” John exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the odd situation in the light of this new, terrifying information. “But that means that Mary was, what? Leasing him for the day? Wait a moment! Are you telling me Mary knows him? Mary fucking knows Jim Moriarty?”

Mycroft gave a little nod. Sherlock sat straighter.

“They met back in your world,” he said, the first words he'd uttered since Mycroft had started speaking. “It makes sense. Do you remember, John, what she told you? That she was used to danger? She wasn't lying, she never directly lied to you, she's too clever for that. But something went wrong, and she ended up here, and went looking for him again. You came to me. Mary went to Moriarty. You were both trying to get your old lives back.”

“That seems likely,” Mycroft agreed. “She's proving to be a difficult person to question. None of the traditional methods work on her.”

“What does that mean?” John asked, his brain helpfully providing terrible scenarios one after another.

“It means Mycroft can't just yell at her and command her to tell everything,” Sherlock translated with the sullenness of someone who had had exactly that done to him. “But that also explains why you took interest in the Seropidol case. It's obvious.”

“Is it?” John asked even while Mycroft nodded again. “Would one of you geniuses explain it to dumb old me, too?”

“But you noticed the missing clue yourself,” Sherlock pointed out. “The tattoos, John. That both Colonel Moran and Allister Merritt would have such similarly poor taste in them is against the -”

“Balance of probability,” Mycroft took over, and Sherlock shut up without a protest. “The tattoos link them together, and we know the Colonel works for Moriarty. Thus, it's highly probable that the late Mr Merritt did, too. I took Sherlock off the case as soon as the connection to Moriarty was found, as a favour for you, John. You were quite adamant about that one point.”

“So Lestrade called me yesterday,” Sherlock continued. “Told me that I was not to be allowed back into NSY until after they'd cracked this one. As if they ever would. Thanks a lot, John.”

“Oh shit,” John swore, “I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't think – I just didn't want you to be anywhere close to Moriarty. He stalks you there, I wanted to avoid that here. I'm sorry. That's why you've been going round the bend today. Why didn't you tell me?”

“My first high-profile case,” Sherlock intoned. “My one chance to make a difference.”

John groaned.

“I'm so sorry,” he repeated, stroking his lover's shoulder, neck. It felt ridiculously inadequate. He remembered well those confessions from the past days, Sherlock's anguish at not being listened to. John had given him a chance to prove himself and then, unwittingly, taken it away again. “I'm sorry,” he whispered again.

Mycroft shrugged. “It's off their hands, as well. I have my own agents working on it now. Moriarty is too important to be trusted to the procedurals of the Met. Which brings me to my last point.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Don't.”

Mycroft didn't seem to hear, or care. “John, given your unique position of authority when it comes to dealings with James Moriarty, I'd like to offer you a contract. Accepting it would be in your best interests.” He gave a meaningful glance at his brother, seated on the floor between them like a child.

John had already made up his mind. Sherlock had been foretelling this since the day one. “No, Mycroft. I won't take it.”

Mycroft cocked his head. “Are you quite sure?”

“Absolutely. I've chosen my side. It's not yours to decide.”

Mycroft gave a thin smile. “And which side would that be, Doctor Watson?”

John placed two sure hands on Sherlock's shoulders and drew him closer. The man slumped against him, like there wasn't a bone in his body to keep him upright.

“His.”

The thin smile grew even thinner. Against John's thumbs, Sherlock's pulse pounded.

“A pity. But if you change your mind -”

“I won't.”

“But if you do, I'll just leave these here. Take them or leave them. Excuse me.”

Mycroft placed an envelope on the table and answered his ringing phone.

“Yes – it's me. What? He did what? What about Morstan? Right. I'll be right there.”

He pocketed the phone and looked at the two sitting men.

“The game just changed. Sebastian Moran has disappeared.” He turned and hurried towards the stairs, only stopping to give John one last glance while opening the door. “I urge you, _Captain_ Watson. Think about it. For Britain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is in sight! I try to finish the story during July. Leaving a comment is a scientifically-proved way to help me write faster. ;-)


	25. The Mystery of the Male Malleability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, we reaffirm a relationship. (It means _smut_.) The plot continues in the next chapter, if you'd rather concentrate on that. You still might want to read the first part of this chapter anyway.

“It's Moriarty's doing. The fucker broke Sebastian out of whatever hole Mycroft was keeping him in. He must have,” John swore even while Mycroft's descending steps were still fading towards the crowds of Baker Street. Sherlock gave no sign of hearing him. As soon as the front door clicked shut he let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a whine and turned to bury his head into John's lap. He stayed there for a long time, breathing harshly and fighting the wrecking tremors going through his body. John had never seen him so shaken, so out of control before.

John, still riding the adrenaline from Mycroft's visit, wanted to pace and make plans, ready himself for this next round with Sherlock's nemesis. It seemed like that had to wait, however, as Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John's knees and refused to let go. Unsure what his lover would welcome in this odd situation, John buried his fingers gently into the unduly hair and massaged his scalp in slow circles. Eventually, Sherlock's body calmed down and he gave a long sigh, letting his head rest on John's thigh.

“Feeling better?” John asked with a carefully neutral voice, fighting the temptation to push him away and get to work. All the aches of his body were forgotten. Who cared about a couple of cuts when there was a criminal mastermind on the loose, breaking into military bases and the prisons of the British government?

“Can't you feel it at all?” Sherlock answered, ignoring the question. “Can't you feel – anything, at all?”

John considered this. Of course he felt things. Anger, worry, confusion, to name but a few, but he knew Sherlock didn't mean those. Sherlock, who was still clinging to his legs, all but pressed against his jeans, pale-faced and small-voiced. Sherlock, who didn't give a fuck about Moriarty, but didn't trust himself to stand in his brother's presence. But no matter how John tried to analyse himself, to him it had been just Mycroft. Obnoxious, yes, but that wasn't anything out of ordinary. It had been the normal Mycroft.

“No,” he decided, and Sherlock let out a wistful sigh.

“I envy you,” he admitted, his voice vulnerable in a way John had very rarely witnessed. “Such numbness, how light it must be.”

“What is it like, for you?” John asked after many silent moments during which Sherlock's body had relaxed even further and he himself had tried not to squirm, not to think about the threat looming in the shadows. Another long silence followed, and John had almost forgotten his question when Sherlock started speaking.

“It's difficult to describe. It's oppressive, like there's a thunderstorm coming. A thunderstorm inside your head. Or like you're in hurry, and already late, or never holding the violin quite well enough. And above it all, there's this urge to just, to accept it, to go down and take what you're given and be grateful.” He snorted. “That came out totally wrong. I don't think I have the words for it, at least any words you'd understand. I'm no poet, John. I'm sorry.”

John had listened, holding his breath, immersing himself in the careful words Sherlock had used. His voice had gone softer, more human somehow, now that he had been asked to describe something for which there were no scientific, predetermined terms. And the words he had chosen, the images he had drawn! There was nothing cold in them, nothing sarcastic. John had heard the frustration, too, when Sherlock started to doubt he wouldn't be understood as he wanted to be, and had fully expected to hear insults about his failure to follow these fumbling thoughts. Instead, he'd got a rare apology.

And Sherlock was wrong. John thought he might understand, at least partially, what it must have been like for him. A thunderstorm inside your head? An urge to just let go?

In a different context, he was very familiar with those feelings.

“No, don't be sorry,” he answered. “It was well said. Thank you.”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “Now I know you didn't understand,” he complained. “Being sorry is part of it. You gave me a task, which I failed. I should feel sorry. I should want to be punished.”

John inhaled sharply, Moriarty forgotten for the moment. _What?_ What was he supposed to say to that?

“But, I! No, I, Sherlock, do you want – that?”

Punishing Sherlock? For those words? For any reason whatsoever?

Oh dear God in Heaven, don't make him do it. He couldn't. Not ever. Not even for Sherlock.

Especially not for Sherlock.

Sherlock gave another long sigh.

“No,” he admitted at last. “I'm defective. I should, and I'm truly sorry, but no. I don't want that. Not now, in any case.”

Okay. That was good. But - -

“But sometimes?” John couldn't stop probing, the horror still fresh in his mind. “Do you want – that, sometimes?”

“With the patches, or in Bliss, or if the dom is very forceful,” Sherlock recited, his voice flat. “You've seen that, haven't you? That first morning? You told me to stop talking, and I -,” he cut himself short, wouldn't speak any more. And he didn't have to.

John remembered. Sherlock, deducing his life's story once again, clever and astonishing and so, so heartbreaking. He'd thought it was just drug-induced amnesia, hadn't understood anything yet. He'd begged Sherlock to stop, and the other man had fled. And then he came back, having made sure he wouldn't speak again by the most literal way possible. And he'd offered John a riding crop, wanting to be punished. For deducing, for being himself.

And then he understood what Sherlock wasn't saying.

“And with Mycroft, do you want it then, because, Sherlock, I think -”

“All the time,” Sherlock confirmed his suspicion, his voice subdued. “Can't stop craving it from him. Which is why we don't often meet, or even talk on phone. It's very – distracting.”

“Oh Lord,” John sighed, pulling Sherlock's head back to his lap. “That's, that's not, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” He gave a hollow laugh. “And while we're apologising, I feel bad about the case, too. I couldn't even imagine it'd have anything to do with Moriarty. But that's just what he's like. Has his fingers everywhere. Even in the cells of the Met.”

“The Met didn't hold Moran,” Sherlock said quietly. “He was in Mycroft's own lair, like you speculated earlier. To escape from there is unprecedented. I find it particularly interesting that he didn't take Mary, too. Why only Moran? This Moriarty person is proving to be quite interesting. You must tell me all about him. But not now. We have something else to do now.”

John's heart sank at those words. He didn't think he could take another Sherlock who considered Moriarty interesting, worthy of his blinding notice. “We do?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded almost normal now, quick and definite.

“What is it?”

 _Hungry_ , John registered dimly as Sherlock turned to stare at him, all traces of weakness gone from his dark expression.

“Now, John, we're going to have sex.”

Okay. That was - -

“ _What_? Now? Why, I mean, _yes_ , but, _why_?”

Sherlock, the beloved bastard, gave him a slow, wicked grin.

“Because I want to.”

–

For a guy who made such a fuss about his submissiveness, Sherlock certainly knew how to take control of a kiss. Any feeble objections John might have been harbouring were quickly forgotten when the full concentration of consulting lips fell upon him, nipping, licking and finally demanding access to his mouth. One moan, half surprise and half arousal, was all that was needed for him to thrust inside and build a home there, exploring with that kind of aggressiveness which was usually reserved for lamp-lit streets and frantic chases. He remembered their first time, in the bathroom. Sherlock had been decisive then, too, going for what he wanted with a single-minded abandon, but even then it hadn't been this much, this fast.

A very unwelcome idea made itself known and was immediately vocalised. 

“Oh fuck, Sherlock, does Mycroft turn you on?”

Sherlock's eyes popped open and he stared at John like he had grown a third eye, or perhaps antennae from the top of his skull.

“What? No! Where did you even get such a thought into your head?”

“Well, all that talk earlier, and the timing, and fuck I'm sorry I'll shut up now.” John covered his eyes, feeling more sheepish by the second. God, the things he let out of his mouth. His lips felt hot and swollen from the kissing. Could they please go back to the kissing now?

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I see, that was actually quite clever. It even has a seed of truth in it. But no. I don't fancy my brother. You can sleep your nights at peace.”

John sighed in relief. “Okay. That's good. But still, after everything you've gone through today, this seems a bit – sudden. Not that I'm complaining. Just surprised, is all.”

“It was you, John. It was only ever you,” Sherlock replied, frowning. “You defied him, to his face. You stood by me. You chose me. I'm not – used, to that. It was good.”

Kissing him again seemed the only adequate way to answer that declaration, and so John indulged. Sherlock was gentler now, but no less insistent. Something, however, seemed to have changed. He kept on stopping, starting again, kneading his fingers into John's legs like he couldn't quite decide what to do with them.

“Sherlock? What's wrong?”

Sherlock froze, pushed his forehead against John's forehead, his nose brushing John's. He took a couple of deep gulps before finding his voice.

“I –,” he started, but couldn't go any further. He might have been blushing, it was difficult to tell when they were so close to each other.

“Sherlock? Look at me, please. What are you thinking about?”

“Could you – please, tell me what to do?” His eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed, his lips rosy and bitten. He looked up at John anxiously. “Please. Sir.”

Alarm bells went off in John's head. The last time they'd done that it hadn't ended so well. Sherlock seemed to see what he was thinking about.

“It's different now. I know it's coming. Please, it's – I, it's – important to me.”

And it really had to be, for him to ask something which would render him so vulnerable. The hazy river of want inside John's veins grew stronger. The idea was tempting, so tempting. To have this gorgeous creature on his knees in front of him, asking to be dictated in this, the most intimate experience they could share, was nothing short of intoxicating. Every cell in John's body urged him to accept, to take and to devour what was offered. Stepping back from that precipice, if only for a moment, was almost impossible.

“Are you sure? Completely sure? I don't want to hurt you,” he asked, or rather begged, nuzzling Sherlock's nose with his own. _Say yes, say yes, say yes, I love you just say yes._

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, and John felt like crying.

“Stand up,” he said instead. “I won't have you kneeling for me. Stand up and take a couple of steps back. I want to see you. You're magnificent, I always want to see you.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathed again, relieved, and scrambled to obey.

“Yes what?” asked John mildly, wondering at this new side of himself, so easily brought to surface by Sherlock's own behaviour.

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock whispered, wrecked, as if those two little words both hurt and delighted him at the same time. John marvelled at that, this need to obey, to hand his control away if only for a few moments. Nothing he'd done had compelled Sherlock to ask for this. He did it because he genuinely wanted to, maybe even needed it. And now he stood where John told him to, almost vibrating, waiting for the next command. The trust, slowly built between them, which now made Sherlock's actions possible, wasn't lost to John. How many times, with how many people, had Sherlock allowed himself to be stripped this bare? He suspected the number was very small indeed. 

_That's enough for now_ , he decided. There were more important things to think about, things like the familiar pink haze of Sherlock's cheeks. It had bled down over his throat, disappearing into his tight white shirt. The shirt was too much. It had to come off, right now.

“The shirt,” John told him, obeying his desires. “Take it off, but carefully. I like that one. We don't want to damage it.”

Sherlock gave a little, dazed sigh and set to work. His movements were methodical, practised if not for the minuscule shaking of his fingers which made him fumble over the first buttons. The bared blush was indeed lovely, spreading over his shoulders and chest, encouraging his nipples to stand up to attention, making the sparse hair under his navel look even darker.

“Trousers,” John said, dreamily. “And socks, and pants. Just take it all off. Christ, Sherlock, it's illegal how beautiful you look. No man should look half as beautiful as you do. You're like some mythical creature. Gorgeous doesn't cut it. You're past gorgeous, you're ethereal. Exquisite. Fucking sublime.”

Sherlock, his eyes huge and dark now, undid his belt and his trousers, shivering violently every time John came up with a new adjective, trying the find the correct one to describe his lover. Very soon he was standing, bared, in front of John, breathing harshly and making no effort to cover his very prominent interest in John's voice, his words.

“The truth is,” John confessed, drinking the sight of him eagerly, “that you're dazzling beyond words. I think touching you would be sacrilegious. So I won't.”

At that, Sherlock let out an unhappy whine.

“Yet,” John added, and Sherlock inhaled sharply.

“Make no mistake, I intend to touch you, I never want _not_ to touch you. But right now, what I want even more is –. Can you guess what it is, Sherlock?”

“For me to touch you?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and hopeful, made of raw honey and desire and deep, dark places. John blinked.

He hadn't even thought about that, had been absolutely concentrated on the beauty that was uncovered for him. For the first time since Sherlock had started kissing him he paid attention to his own body and realised just how aroused he was. Suddenly, getting rid of his own trousers seemed like a splendid idea. But no, that wasn't what he'd had in mind.

“For you to touch yourself,” he corrected and was gratified to see Sherlock's right hand twitch immediately towards his cock.

“Not there,” he growled, eyeing said cock with great interest. “That's for me. That's _mine_.” 

The sound that emerged from his lover at that was pure desperation, the one denied part of him twitching for contact.

“No,” John continued, staring at him in wonder, “this is what's going to happen. Lick your fingers, nice and wet. I want you to touch yourself everywhere, except on that one place. I want you to leave yourself shivering and sensitive. And then I want you to come to me.”

For a second after letting those words out of his mouth, he panicked. But then Sherlock jerked to obey, licking and sucking at two of his fingers until they were wet with saliva. He replaced them with the fingers of his other hand, letting the first hand slide slowly down over his throat, over his chest and his nipples. Wet trails were left in their wake and John stared, breathlessly.

To have Sherlock obey him in this, to submit to his wishes, it was a heady thing. A beautiful thing. Once more, he found himself biting back tears.

“Use your nails,” he rasped, and Sherlock moaned and curled his fingers, now both hands on his nipples, twisting and tugging as per John's instructions. “Gentler,” John said, or “sides,” or “throat,” or “hair, _now_ ,” until Sherlock closed his eyes, opened his mouth and let go of the last vestiges of his control. He became an instrument for John to play, the tight strings of his tendons and the insistent bass of his heart only fuelling the need John could see growing inside him. The blush deepened, his mouth slackened, and John knew without a question that he could never come back from this. Now that he'd seen it, this trust Sherlock had placed into his hands, he could never be without it again. 

“That's enough,” John whispered at last, his voice rough with his own, unmet arousal. “Come here, hands behind your back,” he demanded, and Sherlock hastened to comply, standing close enough for John to touch him. He did just that, placed his hands over those narrow hips and pulled him even closer, bringing Sherlock's weeping, untouched cock to rest only inches from his own mouth.

“You said that you enjoy doing it,” John remembered, saw Sherlock's cock jump at the shared memory. “Do you also enjoy having it done to you?” The idea of putting his mouth on Sherlock was overwhelming, and he had no intention of fighting it. He'd have Sherlock's cock in his mouth, sliding over his tongue, pushing into his throat. Yes. He'd have that, right now. He'd imagined it often enough.

Sherlock stared at him in wonder. “I've never,” he started. “It's not for the sub to -,” but at that point John stopped listening and gave him an indulgent, wet lick, because Sherlock was obviously talking bullshit. 

It was a good thing John was holding him up, because at the first touch of his tongue the standing man gave a panicky, almost pained keen and staggered, only regaining his balance by grasping John's shoulders. He raised his head to give Sherlock a firm stare, letting the wet cock slide from his mouth, push his lower lip down. Sherlock stared at it in an open-mouthed marvel.

“I said hands behind your back,” John reminded him with a cold voice and waited only long enough to see him complying before going back to his work, gentler now.

Did this mean Sherlock had never received a blow job in his life? That as a submissive, the expectation was that he should always concentrate on his dom's pleasure, ignoring his own needs?

Well, fuck that to the moon and back. John might not have experience in this particular art, but he was determined and head over heels in love. Also, the pure anguish and desperation in Sherlock's frame as he fought not to push into his mouth told John exactly how this scene would end. He was no bloody dom, and to him Sherlock was everything, literally the only thing he cared about in this world.

He gave Sherlock's taut arse a playful slap with his left hand and the man keened, horrified and aroused at the same time, bucking deep into John's waiting mouth. He pulled away, but John slapped him again, forcing him back, again and again, until Sherlock gave up and let his body take over, riding into John faster and faster, his moans becoming whimpers and then just whines, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Sir, Sir, Sir,” he chanted, and then louder, more urgently, “ _John_!”

Ah. That would be his cue. John released his panting lover and pushed him gently away, just enough to rise up himself.

“Bedroom,” he said. “Wait for me. No touching yourself, either. Anywhere. Think about Anderson if you have to.”

Sherlock, looking like he didn't know whether he should be aroused, appalled or insulted, fled to his room, and soon after John heard his mattress creak. Even it managed to sound sullen.

Good. He had maybe ten minutes before Sherlock would come looking for him. That should be long enough. It'd better be.

–

Sherlock, pale and lovely, he of long limbs and a catastrophe of hair, was lying in the middle of the bed, his thin fingers curled into the sheets, his cock curling proud and ready over his stomach. The look he gave John was pure glower. Suddenly, John felt very old, normal and ridiculous and absolutely unworthy. Next to Sherlock, anyone would be diminished. Next to Sherlock, anyone would feel inadequate.

Sherlock's mouth, however, turned vulnerable and trembling as he took John in, understood what he had done.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he said, that baritone voice uttering the word as if it was a prayer, a drop of holy water. “ _John_.”

Just John. Just his name, and John understood what a fool he was. It was all right. It was going to be all right. Get your shit together, Watson, or get out.

“I love you,” he blurted out and rushed to the bedside, climbed to perch over Sherlock, hands over his shoulders. “I love you so much. Now fuck me, and make it good. Do you understand me, Sherlock? Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

Sherlock gulped, closed his eyes, opened them again and gave John a short nod, his grey eyes misting over. “Sir,” he breathed out, apparently reduced to one-word sentences. “This is – I haven't - -”

“Shut up if you don't have anything noteworthy to say,” John interrupted, took hold of Sherlock's cock and slid it over his stretched, lubed opening. It felt natural there, filling the void he had created with hasty fingers on the other side of the wall. “Shut up and make love to me. It's new to us both.”

A careful press down, and John felt how his body made room for Sherlock, opened to let him inside. The push of it felt unfamiliar and so, so warm. Sherlock was a rod of fire pressing into him, his body gone taut and raw, his eyes black, his mouth slack and desperate. John rose up on his hands and knees, then pushed down again, deeper now, and the pleasure of it was new, was surprising, forced his head back.

“Sherlock!” He hissed, and then there were strong hands on his hips, gentling him, helping him, and John kept on moving, slowly, carefully, letting his body set the pace, until he felt Sherlock's thighs against his buttocks, his balls against his arse, felt Sherlock's lungs rise and compress under his knees. The smile came out of nowhere.

“I did it,” he said, dazed, meeting Sherlock's gaze. He looked just as stunned as John felt. “ _We_ did it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed out, and he had never looked quite as innocent as he did right then. “We did, didn't we?”

This was worth a kiss. In fact, it was worth many, many kisses, which John scattered over Sherlock's face, his eyelids, his forehead, the tip of his nose. Sherlock raised his hands to John's head and brought him down, licking straight into his mouth.

“How do you feel?”

Sherlock pondered this for a moment, seemingly lost for words. “I, it's, I'm yours,” he finally concluded after several false starts, blushing furiously. John gave him a wide smile, planted his hands over his chest and started moving again, long, luxurious glides up and thrusts down. The initial weirdness of it soon turned into pure pleasure and that, _oh, that_ had to be his prostate.

Oh _Lord_.

They were definitely going to do this again.

Under him, Sherlock began moaning like a man possessed, his eyes crunched shut, his hands roaming over the expanse of John's chest, his arms, his hips, his legs. He raised his knees, let John lean back, started to thrust up to meet John coming down, and if the feeling of it alone wouldn't have overwhelmed John the sounds they were making certainly did. Wet slide of flesh meeting flesh, his own sharp breaths, the almost pained little whimpers from Sherlock's writhing frame.

The pleasure spiked so fast John almost came without a warning. He froze, feeling empty and desperate on his knees over his lover's waiting, twitching cock.

“Sherlock!”

“S-sir?”

“If you don't touch me right now, I'm going to come without ever feeling your hand on my cock, and that would be a fucking shame.”

Sherlock sobbed, and flipped them over, and John had always known he could do it, _always_ , but experiencing it, having Sherlock slam into his arse over and over and _over_ again like that, reaching around to let John fuck his fist even as he tried to burrow into his body, was almost too much. John dropped his forehead into the pillows, not caring how decadent this must look, let Sherlock have him, welcoming the deep thrusts which rocked him into the mattress, his cock into Sherlock's wet fist, grunting with each sharp movement.

Sherlock was chanting again.

“Sir – Sir – Sir,” he repeated, broken and raw. “Let me. Please, _let me_.”

“I'm going to come,” John whispered, torn. “I'm so close. _Harder_.”

And Sherlock sobbed, and gave it to him harder, until John's world pinpointed into that one feeling, that one eternal moment, and his hole tightened impossibly even with a cock pounding into it, and he knew that this was it. He was going to have the most spectacular orgasm of his life, and he was going to have it with his face on the pillows and Sherlock's cock in his arse. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, was not yet done. “Please let me come,” he pleaded between the harsh breaths. “I can't, not without you letting me, _please, John_ , please let me come.”

This cut through the imminent haze of pleasure, put the last dam to John's rush towards that epic orgasm. He didn't analyse Sherlock's words, just knew what he wanted, knew that he'd have it too.

“God yes,” he moaned. “Come, Sherlock. Come with me, because I'm going to come – right – _now_!”

And Sherlock drew in one last, desperate breath, slammed deeply into him and pressed him into the mattress, working his cock furiously, but it was all redundant, because John had started coming the moment he heard that ragged sound, the moment he felt the hot wetness explode into his body. His cock jerked and danced in Sherlock's grasp, and he bit the pillows to avoid shouting too much, and then his body gave up and he crashed into the mattress, the heavy warm weight of his lover following soon after and pinning him into place.

 _Incandescent_ , his blissful brain decided. It was closest to the truth. This thing they had, what Sherlock was, it was incandescent. 

The titular man himself placed a very soft, very gentle kiss on his earlobe, and nothing more was said of the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do leave a comment to cheer me through the last couple of chapters, or visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/) if that's more your thing. The end is so near I'm getting giddy here!


	26. The Game Is On

“Titanium,” Sherlock announced, with a voice a tad too delighted. “He really respects this Moriarty fellow.”

“Dog tags,” John repeated his own line, the envelope Mycroft had left for them hanging from his limp fingers and the folders of papers it had also housed scattered over the table. “He actually went and ordered me a new pair of dog tags. There's my real birthday and everything, look.”

“Yes, John, I know. They are dog tags, after all. But titanium! Did you know that titanium's melting point is over 1 500 degrees? Didn't you mention bombers, earlier?”

“Yeah, how nice,” John muttered. “So after Moriarty has bombed me to hell and back, at least this lovely pair of titanium tags will remain to mark the spot where I once stood.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Don't be absurd. Bone ash has about the same melting point as titanium does. It just makes identification easier. And oh! It's also highly resistant to water corrosion, even in chlorine.”

That made John shudder. He had told Mycroft about the pool incident, of course he had. And now here he was, being presented with a shiny pair of chlorine-resistant, explosion-proven dog tags as well as the top secret files of Moriarty and his crime kingdom. Mycroft had really been listening, hadn't he? Did he expect to witness a repeat show?

The files were for Sherlock, of course. John had taken one look at them and felt almost physically sick at the sight of Moriarty's leering face inside their safe haven. James Moriarty had no right to haunt 221B Baker Street, not even in paper format.

“What're those for?” He'd asked Sherlock, who was going through the stacks with an honest smile on his face.

“Mycroft being polite,” he answered. “Officially, I'm off the case, but he knows I see connections where the others don't. He's offering me a way to be a part of this.”

“How very nice of him,” John muttered, trying to swallow his repulsion down. He understood how this would be important for the brothers, remembered that he was the only one here who had such gruesome history with Moriarty. From Mycroft's point of view, including Sherlock was reasonable.

He just had to keep telling himself that.

“Coo-ee, boys!” Came Mrs Hudson's perky voice up the stairs, soon after followed by the landlady herself, carrying a flat packet. “There was a courier at the door. He left this for the gentlemen of 221B. Have you seen any around?”

It was as close to reproach as she was likely to get with Sherlock around. Mrs Hudson had taken John aside earlier that day and explained that while she was very happy for them, she really must insist they keep the noise down, or at least close the windows beforehand.

“It's not decent,” she'd said, shaking her head, “and with the café just next door. I've already received a couple of complaints. Even Mr Chatterjee's getting anxious.”

“Don't forget the two inquiries about a possible threesome,” Sherlock had drawled from the sofa because of course he heard, even while she was trying to be discreet. He was sorting through John's notes about Moriarty, also included in Mycroft's envelope, and John had blushed deeper red than he suspected was medically advisable.

He gave a repeat performance of that blush now and snapped the packet from their landlady's fingers. It was a rectangular thing, about the size of a hatbox but flatter, covered by dark blue velvet. There was a silver clasp on one side.

“It's quite soon,” said Mrs Hudson, looking at the box approvingly, “but I have to say, I'm so proud of you. Both of you. Is there going to be a party?”

“What?” John asked, but then Sherlock was there, herding her towards the stairs.

“Yes, thank you, I'll send John later down for tea, bye bye now,” he rattled off, pushing the door closed behind her back. Then he turned around, the blue dressing gown whirling like the cape of some superhero John had worshipped during his younger days.

“Don't open it,” Sherlock barked, all pleasantry gone from his voice, and John dropped the box to the table unquestioningly. Obeying him was becoming a purely instinctual thing by now.

“What is it?” He asked, poking the box awkwardly. Sherlock produced a pair of rubber gloves from his pockets, put them on and took the box, carrying it to the kitchen.

“Shh,” he said, raising the box closer to the bright lamp hanging over the table, examining it from all angles.

“It's new,” he muttered, “bought from a chain store. There are hundreds sold every day. I can't see any hairs, any spots, not even dust. Give me my magnifying glass.”

It was in the pocket of his coat, exactly where John had found it countless times earlier. Wordlessly, he handed it over. Sherlock spent the next minutes going over the surface of the box, sniffing it, scraping some lint to a slide, and as usual, explaining nothing. It was such a familiar situation John couldn't help the fond smile rising on his face. Sherlock would always be Sherlock, even here, even after everything.

“A book would fit in,” John offered, “or maybe a small painting. Or a tablet.”

“Don't be absurd,” Sherlock quipped, “you know what this is.”

“I've never seen anything quite like it before.”

“Of course you have, countless times. This doesn't require deducing, John. It's obviously a jewellery box.”

John stared at the thing. Yes, he saw what Sherlock meant, but it was many times bigger than even the most ambitious boxes he'd ever seen.

“That thing could house a dozen rings,” he pointed out. Or the Queen's fucking tiara collection.

“It's not meant for rings,” Sherlock answered, giving the lock one last stare. Then, very carefully, he opened the lid, uncovering a –

“A dog collar?” John asked, bewildered. “Why would anyone put a dog collar into a jewellery box?”

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. “Why don't you go downstairs and ask Mrs Hudson what the courier looked like? And don't rush back.”

–

“He was a big one,” Mrs Hudson answered thoughtfully. “Fair-haired, clad in a suit. Very professional.”

John winced. Sherlock had taught him about men in suits. You could hide anything under the suit, and yet the clothes would be all people saw, the posher the better. “Did he leave a card? Anything at all?”

She shook her head, pursed her lips. “No. Nothing like that. So, it wasn't for you, then? Oh John, you should just go ahead and propose. I'm sure he'd say yes.”

He was spared having to think up an answer when her face lighted up. “Oh! There was something! I almost forgot. He didn't have gloves on, and there were tattoos, tattoos on his hands. Is that important?” She looked up at him, pleased with herself, and John wanted to vomit. He fled her kitchen and ran upstairs, despite Sherlock's veiled orders not to bother him.

“Moran,” he blurted out as soon as the familiar dressing gown was in sight. Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot by the table. “It was Moran who delivered the box. It's from Moriarty.”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock answered, not even bothering to raise his head from his study of the leather collar. “The very helpful report you gave to my brother makes his modus operandi pretty clear. Although it was useful to verify that.” 

But now the lines had connected in John's head, and they kept on connecting.

“Moriarty,” he repeated, “giving items to you. The shoes. Carl Powers' shoes. Oh, shit, you're right.”

This was, apparently, the first worthwhile thing he'd said since Mrs Hudson had climbed the stairs with the box. Sherlock stopped his investigation, actually put the collar down and gave John all of his attention.

“What was that?”

John started pacing. “I don't know how far you're into those files, but this is what he does, his way of saying hi,” he explained. “He did this there, too. Gave you a puzzle. Watched you dance. Oh _fuck_ , the bombs.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said, sounding disappointed. “That's what I just told you. But go ahead and tell me more about the bombs.”

“To make sure he'd got your attention,” John answered, ignoring the rest of the answer. It wasn't important. What was important was Moriarty and his bloody obsession of giving Sherlock the most horrible kind of gifts. 

“He'd put bomb vests on people, leave them around London. If you – he – didn't move fast enough, he'd detonate them where they stood, waiting. There was one, in a fucking _orphanage_ -,” he choked on the words, remembered the dull terror of those days.

“There aren't going to be any bombs here,” Sherlock said, his voice gentle. “He's already got my attention, if that's what he really wants.”

“Of course it's what he bloody wants!” John exploded. “It's the only thing he has to work for! What do you mean, he's got your attention?”

“Because this,” Sherlock answered, dangling the collar between two long fingers like it was going to give him pox with any more contact, “is going to solve the Seropidol case.”

John stared at the thing. It remained a dog collar, albeit a large one.

“What, you mean the killer has a kennel? Or a very big dog? We did a dog case already, in Devon. It was one of the more horrible ones. Please tell me there aren't any hallucinogenic gases involved this time.”

Sherlock's expression flashed somewhere between annoyance and sentiment before setting firmly to sulking.

“It's not a dog collar,” he said at last. Wordlessly, and with clear disgust, he fastened the thing around his own throat. It fit perfectly.

John made a sound he couldn't have classified even with a gun on his temple. He hadn't known he was into that kind of thing before this moment, but seeing Sherlock on that snug, tight leather band was – it was a learning experience. The dark brown material sat against pale skin, the long throat made even longer by the collar highlighting it. John wanted to wiggle his fingers between the leather and the skin. He wanted to draw Sherlock close by the collar and kiss him senseless. He wanted to find matching wrist cuffs and strip Sherlock bare except for those.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he said, with feeling.

Sherlock took the collar off.

John tried, very valiantly, not to whimper in protest.

“That's -,” he started, feeling pretty wild.

“Yes?” Dark, lazy baritone, a mocking eyebrow. The bastard knew exactly what he'd done to John. So easily, so fucking easily. It was unfair, this hold Sherlock had over him. He could never repay that particular favour.

His brain kicked back in and he gulped. “Nothing,” he answered. “You hate it, don't you?”

Sherlock gave him a surprised glance. A timid smile appeared a moment later, and when he spoke, his voice was a bit softer than normally.

“Obviously. I don't need that kind of claim over me. Unlike, it seems, the partner of our illustrious friend Alice Emerson.”

“Alice Emers-,” John started, panicking slightly. “Are you telling me Jim Moriarty sent us Doctor Emerson's personal bondage equipment?”

Sherlock gave him a surprised look. “This isn't bondage equipment, John. This is a token of a broken relationship.”

John sat heavily down by the table. All right. Ask questions first, freak out later. There was going to be an adequate explanation for this, too. It might be mad, but so was his life. Deep breaths, Watson.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Give it to me, then. How does this solve the case?”

And Sherlock smiled, and took the chair next to him, and proceeded to explain exactly that.

“It's an old, worn collar. Used for years, see how supple and shiny the leather is. It has absorbed the oils from his skin. But look at the lock. It's used and worn, too. In theory, these things should never be removed. It's a standing claim, after all. The sub isn't even meant to touch the lock without his domme's explicit permission. Yet this thing's in such a shape to suggest continuous use. He kept on taking it off, disobeying a direct order. The state of their relationship, right there on the collar. Oily unkempt leather and a used lock. Bored, unhappy, long-term partners. Now, look inside the cuff.”

John peeked at the place Sherlock was pointing. There was a small, slightly greenish silver plate there, inscribed by the words **Property of Alice Emerson**.

“It was not such a leap of logic to deduce the owner of this thing, you see,” Sherlock admitted. “Didn't Doctor Emerson tell you she was separated from her partner?”

“Yes,” John remembered. “Timothy Emerson. She said he didn't agree with the way the project was managed. The monetary side of it.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “He had debts. Hoped to use her money to pay them off. But she doesn't have a steady income, not while the sponsors' involvement is still unsure. They fought over it.”

John peeked at the collar again. It didn't reveal him any of its secrets.

“I can't see the debts,” he admitted. Sherlock didn't need any more persuasion to share his findings.

“These things are usually adorned. Precious stones, golden chains, that kind of things. This one is bare. But if you look closely, you'll see that it hasn't always been. He's stripped it, used her gifts to pay off his debts, or to get into an even deeper mess. The man is a gambler. He has been stroking the collar even while he's had it stuffed into his pocket. Look at the corners, they are all shiny. A nervous habit, he tried to draw strength from her even while he denied her.”

“So what you're saying,” John said, piecing it together, if not the way Sherlock had intended, “is that this is actually a wedding ring?”

Sherlock gave him a blank look. “A what?”

“A wedding ring?” John repeated. “Something you give to your husband or wife when you get married? To show your devotion?”

“A ring,” Sherlock frowned. “You'd use a ring? Isn't that terribly inconvenient? So easy to conceal a ring if you want it gone, no power in one. What's there in a finger?”

John sighed. “Most married people wouldn't want to do that. It's just a trinket. So, your people wear these collars, then?”

“The submissives do,” Sherlock answered, still frowning at the leather band. “It's not a trinket, John. To wear a dominant's claim in such a visible place, it leaves its mark. The collaring isn't just a physical thing. It could never be.”

John looked at Sherlock's dark face, the uneasiness of his expression. _Here be dragons_ , he realised.

“Sherlock?” He asked. “What aren't you telling me?”

“So Timothy Emerson fights with his partner over money and three people end up dead, one of them the father of said partner,” Sherlock summarised, ignoring John's probing. “What might we deduce about that?”

John recognised avoidance tactics when he faced them. He let go for the moment, concentrated on the task at hand. _Later_ , he promised himself. _I'll find it out later._

“You tell me,” he suggested, smiling when Sherlock jumped at the chance, proud as a little boy who had caught his first fish.

“Mr Emerson needed money. He didn't get enough of it from his partner. The first of the victims, however, was very wealthy. But what did she want? What do you remember about Patricia Rey?”

“Not much,” John admitted. So much had happened since they'd started on the case, he'd barely given it a second thought after those first days.

“She had that older, more dominant lover. The secret one, remember? She was a dominant herself, but yearned to be a submissive. Quite many of them do, the lack of responsibility can be alluring from the other side. That's why she became a sponsor in the first place. And here was what everybody thought a finished product, produced by her money, potentially fulfilling her deepest wish, but kept away from her because of the safety cautions. She must have been curious, or impatient. And Timothy Emerson really needed that money.”

“He gave her the first sample?”

Sherlock nodded. “They must have met somewhere, maybe in a fundraiser, and soon had a deal. Remember, she was found inside her own home. The security system hadn't been triggered, someone had let the killer into the house. Nothing had been stolen and the beating had happened post-mortem, a sloppy attempt to disguise the real cause of death. Patricia Rey hired Timothy Emerson to steal her a dose of the drug she craved. He had the motivation and the means to do it – he must have nicked his partner's keys. He gave her the first sample of Seropidol, but it was faulty, or she had an allergic reaction, and Ms Rey ended up dead. Mr Emerson panicked and tried to cover his tracks. Quite inefficiently, I must say.”

John mulled this over. That would explain the first murder, but the second one was something different.

“But what about the second victim? Surely George Acker knew better than gulp down a dose of an untested drug.”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted, staring at the table. “Get me my phone. I need to call Molly.”

“But it's close to ten already!”

“I'm sure she doesn't mind. And we should call Lestrade and check with him if Mr Emerson and Ms Rey ever met in person.”

“I'm sure I don't have to remind you about the fact that you shouldn't have direct connection with the case anymore. That includes being in contact with Lestrade. I'm sorry, by the way.”

Sherlock gave him a brilliant smile.

“Which is why you're going to be the one call him, John. No one has said anything about you.”

–

It took Lestrade just over half an hour to confirm Sherlock's theory and call him back. There had been a private meeting between George Acker, the Emersons and the most generous sponsors just a month before Patricia Rey's death.

“Is he our guy, then?” Lestrade asked hopefully. “I'm not allowed to let Sherlock anywhere near the evidence or the witnesses, but if he can solve it without leaving Baker Street, some heads must turn. I admit I'm not sure what made the superintendent to ban him again. Bloody fool should just make up his mind and stick to it.”

“The same thing that got him in after that first time,” John replied drily. The line went quiet.

“Are you sure?” Lestrade asked at last. “Because that was his brother, and he doesn't seem to be the kind of man who keeps on changing his mind.”

“I'm sure,” John told him, sighing. Lestrade didn't need to know that John himself was the reason Mycroft played speed poker with his brother's future. “Try to find out what happened in that meeting, and find Emerson. Sherlock is looking for connection between Acker and Mr Emerson right now. Any information of the relationship between those two would be greatly appreciated as well.”

“I'll be in touch,” Lestrade promised, and John went back to the kitchen to report his findings.

Sherlock was in his element, supine on the sofa, hands raised to his thinking pose and eyes closed. The Moriarty folder was spread open over the low table, papers littering the whole surface. Somewhere, there had to be a connection. A reason why Moriarty would send Sherlock Timothy Emerson's collar. 

“There was a dinner at the Emersons,” John told him, and the detective's lips turned into a satisfied smile. “Lestrade is looking for him now. What did Molly say?”

“George Acker was a powerful dominant,” Sherlock recited without opening his eyes. “There's no other way than a surprise attack a sub of nervous disposition could have harmed him. While Molly confirmed that there really were traces of Seropidol in Acker's system, the fact remains that he was beaten to death. This time, Emerson meant to kill. The question is, why? And why try to drug him beforehand?”

“Maybe Acker found out he had caused their sponsor's death?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe. But then he wouldn't have been relaxed around him. Surprising him would have been extremely difficult in those conditions.”

“Then what do you propose?”

Sherlock lowered his hands onto his chest, opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

“Remember, Emerson was panicking. Nobody believed his pitiable attempt at masking the first death as a burglary gone wrong. The Met was out looking for a killer. He must have felt he'd be caught in any moment unless he came up with something.”

“Killing more people is hardly the way to avoid attention.”

“Yes, unless he wasn't trying to avoid it at all.”

“Why would he want that? Rey's death could have been anything, but killing Acker tied the case strongly to the team. Too close to home, one would think.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together, delighted. “I have no idea, but we have a case again, John!”

Yes, they had a case. But it came at a high price. Moriarty was back in town, he knew about Sherlock and was indulging in his favourite hobby of sending him creepy gifts. Sherlock must have seen what he was thinking of, because he jumped up and almost danced to him, full of life and excitement.

“The damage is already done, John. He knows about me, if it's indeed me he's after. Mycroft's objections are officially moot. The secret is out, so lets have some fun!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I sound like a broken record, but...
> 
> Eeeee! It's almost done!
> 
> Comments! Tumblr! All that jazz!


	27. Into Battle

The next morning found John tracing the sleek edges of Timothy Emerson's old collar. Sleeping, just sleeping with the case-giddy Sherlock the night before, sharing his warmth, waking up with him, those had been rare perfect moments in an otherwise messy situation. John hadn't honestly expected Sherlock to join him in bed at all, but when he'd slipped in after midnight, almost shyly, drawing him into a tight embrace had been the most natural thing in the world. And Sherlock had sighed, and relaxed, and fallen asleep in what must have been a record time for him. John hadn't taken long to follow him into the deep slumber. 

But when he had stumbled into the kitchen, still sleep-soft, just to find the collar waiting on the table, yesterday's unease hit him once again. Sherlock had been troubled by the sight of it, really troubled, and even when he'd given his little demonstration his expression had been one of utmost distaste. There was some bad history there, if only John could figure it out.

“Mycroft would have me collared to Victor,” said a rough voice from behind his back. John froze, feeling like he had been caught doing something forbidden. And who knew, maybe in Sherlock's mind he had.

“He says it'd be practical,” Sherlock continued however, not protesting John's possession of the collar. He stalked through the kitchen, towards the can of grounded coffee beans they kept on the corner table for emergencies and mornings alike. “He says it'd open new paths for my career. Keep me safe from those who'd see me silenced.”

“And Victor?” John asked, keeping his voice neutral, the memory of perfect white teeth firmly locked away. Sherlock had made his feelings for Victor perfectly clear. It was John who was sharing his bed, not Victor Trevor. Sherlock didn't turn his head, but answered to the coffee maker instead.

“Thinks it's a brill idea.”

“And you?” Okay, the neutrality thing still needed more work. His anger came through clear as day.

Sherlock stopped, his hand hovering over the power button. “My at times intense protests are the only reason it hasn't happened yet. I won't be subdued under the will of those like Victor. I won't be dumbed down. And that's exactly what would happen.”

“But Mycroft keeps pushing the issue,” John said, sure of the answer. Of course he would.

“He used to,” Sherlock admitted.

“What happened?” John asked, surprised. So Mycroft's head could be turned? The shocks would never end.

Sherlock finally turned around, came to stand in front of him and carefully placed his hands on John's shoulders.

“You did,” he said simply, and the soft morning light peeked in from the tall windows behind his back, painting his hair red, his skin golden.

It couldn't be helped, the morning coffee was postponed in favour of kissing. Sherlock tasted like toothpaste and warmth, his breath unspoiled by the cups of coffee and tea they would consume during the day. The kiss turned into a dozen, and would have likely continued in the bedroom if John's phone hadn't started ringing just when his fingers slid under Sherlock's already promisingly low waistband.

“It's Lestrade!” The man who had his arse groped announced with the kind of voice other people used when they'd won the lottery. “Give it to me!”

John surrendered the phone with a wide smile and spent the next ten minutes listening to the rapid-fire inquisition which was Sherlock Holmes interrogating the good detective inspector about his case. Apparently, Lestrade had no problems divulging his gathered intelligence for Sherlock's benefit. He'd been unable to locate Timothy Emerson. Doctor Emerson had been contacted, but she was unable to assist in the matter. Yes, samples of the drug had gone missing before the murders began, but not only then. A whole batch of them had disappeared before Allister Merritt had been killed, and another one only a couple of days ago. (John rolled his eyes at that, and at the unflinching innocence in Sherlock's voice, too.) No, Timothy Emerson shouldn't have had access to the lab. Yes, the other members of the team all had alibis during the murders. In fact, they'd all been together, in the lab, working overtime almost around the clock. And a resounding no, George Acker hadn't approved his daughter's choice of a partner.

When the call ended, Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa, sending a stack of Moriarty papers flying across the floor.

“Go away,” he told John in a lofty manner. “Go downstairs to bother Mrs Hudson or something. Let me think.”

–

An hour later he was dragged back upstairs, pushed into his chair and presented with a Sherlock-styled wall of crazy. The eager detective had appropriated the whole space over their sofa for photos, notes and maps, coloured threads drawn from one paper to another in an approximation of his deductive process. John recognised the black and white photo of Moriarty Mycroft had shown him, as well as Mary's and Sebastian Moran's faces – also courtesy of Sherlock's brother.

Some family members showed their affection by spending time together or offering help when needed. Mycroft gifted Sherlock with information about serial killers, torturers and kidnappers, and Sherlock, in turn, sniffed and huffed but was secretly pleased anyway. John's own sister stayed quiet and nice enough until she was drunk, and then proceeded to be as humiliating as possible.

No, he wouldn't feel guilt over not going to Harry yet. Let her think him dead. Right now, right here, he had enough on his plate without the added weight of worrying over her.

Great. Now he felt guilty anyway.

Sherlock didn't have time for John's inner musings, however. He hopped onto the sofa and turned to the room like an actor on a stage, poised and in charge.

“We're not going to find Timothy Emerson,” he started without preamble.

“He's dead too?”

“No, I don't think so. Tell me, John, would you describe James Moriarty as honourable?”

John made a very good impression of a stranded fish. “What? He's an insane criminal madman! What do you think?”

“Irrelevant,” came the short answer. “Would you describe him that way in his – insane criminal activities, then?”

John considered this. “I don't think so,” he admitted. “I mean, he seems to be pretty popular as far as consulting criminals go. I think he holds his side of the bargain if the client holds theirs. If the people around him started, for example, dropping dead, he probably wouldn't have that many hopefuls in line, don't you think?”

“Bingo,” came a terrible, impossible, _impossible_ drawl from the doorway. For a few, horrified seconds, John's time halted, came to a screeching, panting standstill.

_Gun. Where's my fucking gun?_

_He can't be here. He just can't._

_Sweet Jesus fucking Christ and all his homo angels what's going on this can't be happening, not here, not now, not fucking ever._

_Get. Sherlock. Safe._

And above it all, the high rush of blood in his ears, the slow motion of a freaked world creeping forward. The intruder's mouth was moving. He was talking. John's animal brain urged him to attack and destroy the threat.

Time slammed back into its normal frame.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Moriarty told the room, smiling, and John knew before looking. Red dots, dancing tauntingly on Sherlock's vulnerable forehead and over his heart. From the expression on his lover's face he knew he was the same.

His rage knew no words. Where in the boiling hell were Mycroft's agents? How could this be happening?

Moriarty took two steps into the room, turned a full circle. He looked the same he had by the pool, expensive suit and well made hair, pale skin and black, emotionless eyes. A rictus grin John needed to punch away from his mad, leering face.

“Jim Moriarty,” he said, unnecessarily. “Hi.”

“You didn't tell you were dropping by,” Sherlock's voice was perfectly stable. John doubted he himself could manage the same. “We could've put the kettle on.”

Moriarty took one, uninterested look at him and turned to speak to John instead.

“I see you allow the pet on the furniture,” he said, grimacing. “Bad habits, that.” Only then did he turn back to Sherlock.

“Off,” came the order, and after a moment Sherlock obeyed, his eyes flashing in warning to John's direction. Moriarty gave a pleased nod and moved to sit on Sherlock's chair.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Let's hear your theory. And I should mention that I have someone on the old woman downstairs. If you need extra incentive to co-operate, that is.”

John woke from his stupor at the mention of Mrs Hudson. No. Not her, too.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He demanded. Moriarty shrugged.

“I grew bored waiting for you,” he sighed. “You're boring. So boring. Are you normal after all? I had high hopes for you, Johnny boy, such hopes. Don't tell me I went into all this effort only to be let down.”

John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock, with flashing eyes, spoke right over him.

“Timothy Emerson killed George Acker to hide his earlier mistake of accidentally poisoning Patricia Rey. It obviously didn't work.”

Moriarty nodded, distracted from John for a moment. “He's such a loser,” he whined, high and shrill. “Stupid, ordinary loser. I detest him, but he had his uses, didn't he? Go on, pet. Show us your tricks.”

“It's not a trick!” John injected, but Sherlock ignored him once again, continued his monologue. He didn't seem to care about the laser pointers dancing over his skin, but cast warning glances at John every few moments. Fine. Keep your mouth shut, let Sherlock occupy Moriarty's interest. Give him time to figure out what was going on, what to do.

John sat on his chair, opposite James Moriarty, and witnessed the most bizarre deduction situation he'd ever encountered. Consulting detective, uncovering the work of consulting criminal, for the benefit of said consulting criminal, in the fucking living room of 221B Baker Street. With Mrs Hudson, apparently, held hostage downstairs.

“Emerson had never had a good relationship with his father-in-law. Drinking and gambling Alice's money caused a lot of strain between them. And then Acker started to become suspicious. He had noticed the missing samples. He knew Rey had wanted to test the drug, probably had refused her pleas for it many times. And suddenly Timothy had money of his own. He suggested a meeting at his home, without Alice. Timothy caused enough fights between father and daughter as it stood, and Acker wasn't sure about this hunch.”

“Good!” Moriarty giggled and clapped his hands together. John wanted to strangle him with his own skull-littered tie. “Very good. Tell me more, I love stories!”

And Sherlock did, locked in place by the lasers, his eyes flicking from John to the windows, back to John, then Moriarty, the stairs, the windows. John, too, was straining for any clues about their situation, sounds from downstairs, his phone ringing, anything to offer them a way out. Nothing happened, however, and only Sherlock's voice shattered the uncomfortable silence.

“Timothy Emerson isn't very effective as far as criminals go, but he isn't totally useless either. He knew Acker would confront him with the evidence, knew that he couldn't allow that to happen. So he attacked first, as soon as they were alone. He had probably dosed himself with desensitisers beforehand. He only had the one chance, and he hoped Seropidol alone would be enough to kill Acker, too. But it wasn't. Different individuals react in different ways as he should have known if he'd taken any interest in the research at all.”

Moriarty was nodding, a dreamy smile on his hateful face. “He had to beat him to death,” he sighed happily. “With his baby pink little ineffectual fists. And when it was done I took him in, and he knelt for Daddy so prettily. I fixed it for him, all of it. For a little price.”

“The finished product,” Sherlock said, shooting a worried glance at John. Still nothing, then. Shit.

“It's such a funny little thing!” Moriarty admitted. “I've become the provider of the impossible. The only one in the world. Honey, you should see how they beg. I'm the king of the market now. Got some time for hobbies, even.” The last was said with a definite leer at Sherlock's direction, and John had to seize the arm rests not to jump up and get them both killed.

“How did he find you?” It was asked in desperation, he wasn't really interested in the answer. Anything to make Moriarty stop looking at Sherlock like that.

“I'm not _found_ ,” Moriarty answered, sounding disgusted. “He didn't find me. No, I went to him, just like I came here. I know about people like him, like you, those with big problems and even bigger potential.”

“I'm nothing like Timothy Emerson!” John protested.

“And now we're talking,” Moriarty muttered, leaning forward, pointing at Sherlock with his left index finger.

“Toy, come here. You as much as twitch the wrong way and Johnny boy here gets it in the gut. Seb dearest has great aim, even from the other side of the street, I assure you.”

John couldn't choose if he hated more those words or the way Moriarty delivered them, with his wide dead eyes locked on John's face, not sparing a glance at the person he was addressing. John didn't dare break the eye contact either, in case this was some kind of stupid dominance game he wasn't aware of.

“He's not your fucking toy,” he growled, but then Sherlock was there, delicately stepping between them and breaking the strained contact. He went to his knees without being told to, positioning himself between the two sitting men. Between them, always between John and the danger, always channelling the madman's ire away from him.

_Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. That's my job. Don't make me fail twice._

“And to conclude the story, you tested the drug on Allister Merritt, just to make sure,” Sherlock finished, his eyes downcast, but Moriarty ignored those words altogether.

“Such a good pet you are,” he murmured instead and grasped Sherlock's chin, turned it to better see his face, caress his vulnerable neck. John knew he was doing a bad job trying to mask his harsh breaths, the rage in his heart. The criminal was touching things he had no right to even think about, and Moriarty saw his expression, smirked, let his hand fall. 

“And pretty, too. I admire your mind, I really do. Too bad it comes in a faulty package. You could have made a glorious dom, better than most. But you're just second-hand wares now, not worth the effort. Go and make Daddy some nice tea, and stay on the sight of the windows. The old hag downstairs might have some use for her knees, after all. And you'd miss your heart.”

Silently, Sherlock stood up and went, and soon the sounds of boiling water filled the confined air. Meanwhile, Moriarty had turned his attention back to John.

“The pet had it right,” he said as if nothing hateful had happened, as if he hadn't cast Sherlock bloody Holmes in the role of kettle-boiler. “Ali was a feisty one. He got a bit overexcited and landed himself into trouble. A shame, really. He would've made a convincing marketing tool otherwise. But you, sir,” he continued, his voice mocking now, “aren't you an interesting one? John Hamish Watson. I took the liberty to take a closer look at your records, out of professional curiosity you see, and my, my,” he gave John an appraising look. “For a dead man you don't look half bad. You've been a naughty one, Johnny boy, Daddy can tell. Takes one to know one.” His face hardened. John stayed stubbornly silent. He could take verbal abuse from this man all day long, had gone through the same thing earlier. Just leave Sherlock out of it, and he'd take anything.

Moriarty seemed content to keep on monologuing.

“My sweetest Seb came along, told me the most fascinating story about this fucker who could hardly stay on his feet, and yet, when the old ponce Holmes turns up, he doesn't even flinch. You impressed my Seb, Johnny, and he doesn't impress easily. Mycroft Holmes thought he'd made a good job hiding you away, but I know a person who knows what other people like. Turns out he wasn't quite thorough enough.”

John blinked. Moriarty was here because – because John had remained on his feet through the nuclear bomb which was Mycroft really letting go?

If only he'd been even more out of it, had staggered when Moran's feet became the temporary property of the British Government. That such a stupid, insignificant thing could lead the poison of Moriarty here, he couldn't have even imagined.

And the Holmes brothers had been right with expressing their doubt that it would be Sherlock Moriarty was after. All along, it had been John. Simple, uninteresting John Watson.

James Moriarty had to be even madder than John had given him credit for.

“What do you want from us?” He blurted out, too frayed to hide his surprise. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Moriarty was not meant give _him_ that particular grin of utter, convicted madness.

“From you? Nothing,” the criminal shrugged. “But from _you_ , Johnny boy, _oh_ , I want so many things from you. Where to even start? I want to learn your secrets. Unravel you, rip you apart, sort through your quivering insides, and then, when that's done, I'll bottle what's left of you and devour it. I want to understand you, because there aren't many things in this world I don't, and it's getting to be so _boring_. But you, there's something about you, isn't there? Something not boring. Something – not quite right. And that, Johnny boy, _that_ is what I want from you. Call it what you will, I don't care. A distraction, a problem. A final problem, for you.”

John stared, wordless, but then Sherlock was back again, stepping between them, offering tea first to him, then Moriarty. There was no third cup. He took a step back and stilled, like a waiter. A fucking waiter. The wheels of John's mind slid back onto their tracks. Everybody knew Moriarty was bloody insane. He should ignore those threats – were they even threats? His focus should be on Sherlock's safety, and Mrs Hudson's. They were the important ones here, the real denizens of this fucked-up world.

“Good boy,” Moriarty murmured, carelessly, sipping his perfectly made tea, and half of John's own, untouched drink ended up on his lap. Sherlock was no dog.

“So this is what's going to happen,” Moriarty continued, looking from one of them to the other with dark expression. “I told you what I want, and I will get that. I'll learn you. Thoroughly. It's going to take some time, but I have a lovely place prepared, don't you worry. For the both of you, naturally. Wouldn't want to leave the stray without its master, the wild ones can get rabies, you know. _So_ happy you hanged on to the collar. Give it to me, petty pet. Second-hand wares for second-hand toys.”

And still Sherlock obeyed, to John's growing horror. He returned to the kitchen to retrieve the collar, offered it to the hated man. Moriarty looked at him disapprovingly, didn't make a move to take it from him. Cleared his damn throat.

Without saying a word, Sherlock went to his knees and offered the item again, his eyes trained towards the other man's shoes.

The rest of John's drink met only a marginally better fate over the floorboards and the shards of the cup.

“Don't you dare,” he bit out, but Moriarty tutted at him, shook his head.

“Temper, darling,” he chastised, and when Sherlock handed him the collar John was ready to be the one who went on ripping people apart. No. This was it, the limit. This was fucking too much.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock muttered, and Moriarty slapped him, hard. Sherlock took the hit full on, not raising a hand to defend himself, not reacting at all. There would be a bruise. John officially stopped caring about the laser pointer over his own chest. The only things keeping him back were the dancing lights on Sherlock's skin and uncertainty about their landlady. As it was, he couldn't help the angry exhalations and muttered curses escaping his mouth.

“Toys don't speak until spoken to,” Moriarty said, nonchalantly flexing his fingers, daring to roll his eyes at John, as if including him in the joke. As if expecting John to _agree_.

And to think that yesterday he had found the idea of Sherlock in a collar hot. Now it made him feel sick. Angry, and impotent, and sick. And it hadn't even happened yet.

Bloody Moriarty and his snipers and power games and twisted obsessions. Damn him to Hell. And Mycroft, too, for allowing this to happen. Where were his glorified agents when they were needed? And John himself, for not foreseeing this, and Sherlock, for accepting the unfair rules of this particular horrible game.

Just damn the whole situation in general, and damn it hard.

“I'll gather the pet and be on my merry way,” Moriarty said, smiling cheerfully. “And you, Johnny, are going to take the nice little pills and wait for my Seb's signal, and then you're going to go out and accept the ride I have prepared for you. You do that, and nothing else, and the old hag can keep on shagging her neighbours, the DI will be as incompetent as ever, and the cute girl in the morgue can play with her corpses next week, too. I'd say I have three gunmen, but that would be lying. I obviously have many more.”

With that, he took a plastic bottle from his pocket and placed it on the small side table. “The dose is on the bigger side,” he admitted, “but fear not. Ali made sure it's safe. Wouldn't want to damage you yet.”

Next went the hateful collar around Sherlock's neck, fastened tight. Too tight, pressing into his trachea. John felt the colour drain from his face, nausea rise in his own throat. Sherlock had been _happy_ about the thing, the insights it gave him, if not the actual object. This was all terribly, horribly wrong. And yet there was only one thing John could concentrate on, one protest he couldn't help but voice.

“But he only has his pyjamas and gown on!”

Moriarty actually rolled his eyes.

“More shame for you. Should take better care of your toys. It's too late now. Remember your pills, and no calling the old ponce. Ciao!”

And away they went, the consulting detective herded downstairs by the consulting criminal, leaving only a petrified ex army doctor behind. But before Sherlock took the first step down the stairs, he shot John a glance through the open kitchen door. And not just any glance, but a wink.

The impossible bastard _winked_ at him.

And then John was alone with the lasers and the bottle and the scattered shards of a broken tea cup on the floor. There was nothing for it but hoping like he had never hoped before that Sherlock knew what he was doing, that he'd had the time to sort through all of Mycroft's papers before shit had hit the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name's unpronounceable and the address is [almost as bad, Tumblr street](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/).
> 
> *winks*  
> *flees*


	28. The Great Faking Game

In the quiet living room facing Baker Street, a furious yet shaken man sat on a comfy chair, staring at a laser pointer hovering over his heart like a twisted medallion. He wasn't permitted movement, but his senses were all in hyper-alert battle zone. He was listening. The idea was a paralysing one, that Moriarty would take Sherlock downstairs and have him shot there, with John sitting uselessly just couple of metres away. And so he waited and listened, fearing for the sound of a gun ending his lover's life, for the second time.

_This isn't fucking possible._

That malignant sound never came. He did hear the shuffling of descending feet, and almost jumped up at the sudden muffled protest which broke those even steps. What the hell was that? Had Moriarty attacked Sherlock? Had _Sherlock_ attacked Moriarty?

“Sherlock!”

He couldn't help the yell clawing its way free from his chest. There was no answer, no sound at all. The cruel laser didn't release him.

_I'm not panicking. I'm not panicking._

_Shit. Stop panicking, you moron._

The steps started again and John tensed, but they were going downstairs, away from him.

“Sherlock?”

The front door opened, closed again. Surely Sherlock would have returned for him if he could? What had happened? His heart was pounding away under his ribs and he realised he was clutching at the chair, fingers white from the force of his grip. He hated all of this, hated not knowing what was going on and hated his own impotency to affect any of it. He had allowed Moriarty to take Sherlock and just waltz away. How could he? So much for John Watson, the protector. He'd promised he wouldn't lead Sherlock into trouble, and here they were. Way to go, Captain Watson. Well done.

Outside, the familiar screeches of traffic continued uninterrupted. Even now, so many people moved past without any knowledge about the events that had taken place just on the other side of the old walls. In one of those cars, Sherlock would travel away with Moriarty. John had only one way of following, of even leaving this damned chair alive. He stared at the bottle the criminal had left behind.

Three white unmarked pills. Briefly, his mind flashed back to that very first case, but no, he supposed these were Seropidol, manufactured into a more functional form in some shady lab of Moriarty's. Of course, they could just as well be any of hundreds of poisons Moriarty no doubt possessed, but if the criminal wanted him dead, well, Moran and his rifle were there just on the other side of the street. Death by poisoning seemed needlessly complicated by this point.

What would happen when he took them? Sherlock had predicted mild nausea, but John didn't even know if he'd been serious at the time, or just taking the piss at him. What did Moriarty expect?

_He wants to disarm you, you idiot. Make you vulnerable to the Voice. He thinks you're like Mycroft. He's wrong. Use it._

John swallowed the pills dry. The laser pointer didn't move an inch. He wondered how long it took for them to take effect, if there would be any effect at all.

He was vaguely sorry he hadn't tried the damn drug when Sherlock had coaxed him to. Knowledge was power, and he felt like a blind man on a minefield. Any misstep could give away his game. Should he fake headache, nausea, nerves? What if he did get some symptoms, but they were wrong ones? He wasn't a dominant, for God's sake, he didn't have those strange genes! How could he play being one when he didn't even know what to do?

These kind of games were Sherlock's speciality. He was the actor, not John. But Sherlock was with Moriarty now, and John could only see one path forward. He felt vaguely ill, but supposed it had nothing to do with pills and everything to do with Sherlock being in danger and him being unable to help. The whole situation had gone from bad to worse in the most spectacular manner possible. Was there some kind of multiversal rule which stated that James Moriarty should pester them for ever and ever, no matter the time or the place? 

The only silver lining in the whole clusterfuckery was Sherlock's parting wink. It had to mean something. There had to be something John hadn't realised, something Sherlock had managed to do even while Moriarty had been busy tormenting them. Think. Remember. Observe. What had Sherlock done, where had he went?

There was nothing by the crime scene wall, apart from the discarded photo of the man John most despised, and anyway Sherlock had been in Moriarty's full sight while standing there. Then he'd come over, and knelt between them, and _don't go there rage won't help him now._

Kitchen. Moriarty had sent Sherlock there, twice. What was there in their kitchen, other than slightly mouldy bread, unspeakable things in the fridge, and a fully functional chemistry lab? You couldn't hide a microscope under a dressing gown and then whack a criminal with it. Not even Sherlock was that good.

He took a mental trip through the drawers, trying to come up with an explanation for that wink. Something had changed the game, given Sherlock an idea, and it had most probably happened while he had been in the kitchen. He hadn't taken anything from the upper cupboards, Moriarty and Moran would have noticed that for sure. So waist-height then, something easily concealed, something the madman wouldn't expect Sherlock to have.

Something powerful.

Plastic bags, old take-away containers, plates, dull knives, Sherlock's pitiable med kit. None of them were very promising. What did they have in the kitchen, that others wouldn't? What could turn the tables against someone like Moriarty?

The answer was obvious when it finally hit him.

Mary's gun. John had stashed it hastily next to the sink, not wanting to see the thing in the bedroom after his confrontation with the woman herself. Sherlock had worked the tabs to fill the kettle. The gun would have been sitting right there. He couldn't have missed it. But Sherlock's track record with guns wasn't exactly comforting, and John couldn't find much solace in the idea that he had merrily carried one away with him.

Mary motherfucking Morstan's bloody gun, in Sherlock fuck-the-weapon-safety Holmes' hands. Or pants, probably, given the attire he had been wearing. _Shit._

John blinked, and the laser pointer was gone. He waited half a minute just to be sure, then rose up. He, very carefully, very innocently, went to the kitchen and filled his mug with cold water, gulped it down.

He walked downstairs with slightly lighter steps, the dog tags tingling in his pocket. As weapons went, Sherlock had got the better deal, but Mycroft would notice they were missing. Maybe he'd draw the right conclusions.

–

There were four black-suited men sprawled on Mrs Hudson's kitchen floor. This had to be Mycroft's prized squad, discarded around like ragdolls. John checked that they were breathing (mostly), peeked into the living room to find similarly unconscious Mrs Hudson (mercifully on the sofa) and continued outside (a red Toyota waiting for him). He had no doubt Moriarty would be monitoring his phone, and he didn't even think about calling Mycroft. His men didn't seem very effective against the madman's goons, and anyway the GPS tracker Mycroft had insisted on would ping his position to who knew how many satellites every couple of minutes. Mycroft knew when John was shagging his brother. Surely he'd notice said brother getting kidnapped by criminal masterminds?

He wondered if this should be counted as yet another kidnapping. Twice in one week seemed a bit excessive, and weren't they both going willingly? He just hoped that Greg and Molly were all right. There was no way to check on them that he could think about. An hour ago, in a hypothetical situation, he had classified James Moriarty as an honourable criminal. Now he couldn't do anything but wish that analysis had been a correct one.

_[Sorry boys. I'm so changeable!]_

No. This didn't help him now. Thinking about another universe's past hadn't given them any advance, quite the contrary actually. Better concentrate on the present.

The driver was a grey-haired, blank-faced man in faded jeans and old leather jacket, the kind of man who'd looked at a mirror one day, seen a senior and promptly gone out to get a motorcycle. The red Toyota with its vanilla-scented wunderbaum didn't suit him any better than his traditionally rebellious clothes did. He didn't spare a glance at John, but accelerated angrily and headed east, following a convoluted route until the car reached Dagenham. The area wore heavy industrial marks, and when the car rolled to a stop near an old, abandoned-looking power station near the banks of Thames, John couldn't help snorting. With Mycroft, it was always parking lots. With the villains, the trademark meeting point seemed to be these instead. But Moriarty having a base so close to central London, just under Mycroft's nose, was really bad news. How could the elder Holmes ever have allowed this? Didn't he have any feelers around the city like he did in the other London?

But there he kept on going to Sherlock, asking for help, not giving up until his demands were met. Here, they barely talked to each other. How much of Mycroft's vigilance was actually down to Sherlock's homeless network? How many misdeeds could be committed outside the sight of the CCTV? Sherlock and Mycroft were both formidable on their own, but now John started to wonder how much they still depended on each other, how well they worked together despite all the sibling rivalry and intellectual sniping going on.

_Notice us, damn you. Notice your brother's in trouble._

“Get out,” said the driver, pointedly staying behind his wheel. John exited the car and started towards the black door the driver had gestured at, feeling grim determination settle over his shoulders. Sherlock was in there, and John would go after him and get him out again. That was the whole span of his plan. That and the fake dominance thing he still didn't know what to think about. And presumably Mycroft would be included somehow. A familiar feeling of excitement came over him, even though missed the weight of gun on the small of his back.

The old power station was indeed abandoned, a huge shabby building of blackened stones and grey concrete, high glass windows and rusty metal structures. It looked like it might let loose a hail of bricks at any time, but the door opened easily, giving only the slightest creak. It was regularly used, John noted before stepping into a long corridor inside. Two big, armed men were waiting for him, and there went John's first hope of Sherlock somehow managing to dispatch Moriarty before they even got here.

_But he couldn't have, could he? Not with Molly and Greg still in danger. We have to play this game, at least for a while._

The goons searched him, and John could only hope they'd taken Sherlock-in-dressing-gown to be such a non-entity to not do the same courtesy to him. As it stood, the most discriminating thing they found on him was his phone, which was quickly confiscated and crushed under a pair of heavy boots.

“He's clean, then?” It was a familiar voice, and John had to fight not to react. Moran stepped into the corridor, and his broad shoulders filled it from wall to wall. John's still sore wounds were screaming at him, warning about pain and danger and terror. He bit his jaws together and made himself relax. Moran wouldn't get under his skin that easily, just by being present. There were worse dragons to be fought here. Still, his traitorous mind was remembering the past horrors in a horrible high definition accuracy.

_Knives, is he carrying any knives?_

_Cuts on your forehead, blood in your eyes, the gag in your mouth, don't throw up don't throw up don't you fucking throw up._

_No._

_Concentrate, you useless idiot of a Watson. He's not going to cut you to little slices here. Not with Moriarty waiting._

“Unarmed and meek as a lamb,” confirmed one of the goons.

“Our little lamb,” Moran laughed in turn, grasping John's chin affectionately, like they were old friends. “We had to leave the girlfriend behind, but worry not. The Boss is at least as interested in meeting you as she was.”

So, he wasn't supposed to kneel for them? He'd been pretty sure someone would tell him to get down as soon as the door closed behind his back. This was a small relief. Maybe they were keeping him unspoilt for Moriarty.

He was taken through most of the old building, Moran leading the way and the two guards following close behind. The dusty, scarcely lit corridors led into great empty halls which finally turned into lived-in quarters littered with long tables and even longer benches, the smells of sweat and nerves high in the air. It all felt very temporary, just one base among many, used and then discarded without another thought. Maybe this was how Moriarty survived right under Mycroft's nose. 

They made no effort to cover his eyes or otherwise conceal the route, and John knew enough to be worried about that. They weren't planning on him getting out again, being able to tell anyone about the things he'd seen inside. Not that there would have been much to speak about. There wasn't a person in sight, until finally Moran took him to a smallish room, not unlike any of the others they had crossed on their way here.

Moriarty was sitting on a plush red leather sofa, watching football from a huge television set which dominated the back wall. The sofa was positioned to face away from the door, and at first John could only see the back of the criminal's head, his dark hair combed down, curling slightly at the ends. He didn't turn when the door opened, but rather stayed still, staring at the screen where tiny men ran after even smaller ball. Never in his life had John been less interested in sport. The whole scene reeked of theatrics, but for whose benefit it had been arranged, he couldn't tell.

Moran waited next to him, and the two guards settled around the door behind them. Very soon it became clear that no goal was happening in the near future, and Moriarty gave an exaggerated sigh.

“I'm betting for them!” He complained. “I was promised three goals, and the time's running up. You can't find reliable people anymore.”

“Getting bored enough to fix matches now?” John asked. Moriarty turned his head, gave him an uninterested once-over.

“Come here,” he said, and John complied with the gentle helping of the closest goon's gun meeting his back.

It was only when he stepped around the massive sofa than he saw Sherlock, still in his stupid dressing gown and the hateful collar, kneeling by Moriarty's feet. He wasn't looking at the telly but rather kept his cheek against the criminal's thigh, his eyes dazed and far away, almost totally black. He didn't look cowed, neither scared. Mostly he looked blank and unnaturally still, there on the hard cold floor.

 **“Kneel, Johnny boy,”** said Moriarty, fighting a grin. His voice sounded curious, like it came from every direction at once, and it made John's stomach churl angrily. The words felt almost solid, like they left an imprint on his brain, and he froze from the weirdness of it. Sherlock maybe, _maybe_ gave the most basic kind of nod, head slumping down when hateful fingers pushed deep into his hair. John stared, unable to shake Moriarty's voice from his mind, unable to peel his gaze from his lover. Back in the flat, Sherlock had been quiet but determined, no doubt the master of his own mind. This Sherlock was not that man. Something had happened between those two while John had been kept away. In fact, this eerily placid person reminded John of the man he had met at first, back there in the warehouse where all of this had started. Passive, obedient, slow.

In other words, not Sherlock at all.

Almost as an afterthought, John did kneel. There was no thunderstorm inside his head, no pressure to obey. Whatever Seropidol did for him, submission didn't come into it. He was intensely glad. Experiencing Moriarty's Voice as a physical sensation was certainly bad enough.

It actually felt wrong, felt idiotic and against all common sense, to give up his initiative stance for the criminal's benefit. His knees weren't used to such a position and protested even before he'd reached it. All the while Sherlock stared through John with unreadable black eyes, his focus somewhere deep inside. Moriarty's fingers were caressing his hair, every now and then dipping lower to trace the edges of Timothy Emerson's collar, and Sherlock tipped his head up, allowed him better access. John couldn't stop staring. 

They looked comfortable together. There wasn't a line of protest anywhere in Sherlock's body, though not any hints of him enjoying the caresses either. It made John's stomach give a nervous twist. At the same time his concentration narrowed, until nothing else existed apart from the red sofa and the two men in front of him. It was a strange feeling, like he couldn't decide whether to be predator or prey.

Moriarty giggled, tugged sharply at the dark curls between his fingers.

“That's better, isn't it? What's it feel like, having to do that?”

John decided that wasn't worth an answer and shut his mouth firmly. 

“You can speak, Johnny boy.”

“Fuck you,” said John automatically, surprising himself. What had happened to his decision to stay silent? His mouth hadn't asked permission, but rather went ahead and blurted that out. Moriarty seemed to find it terribly funny.

“Oh Johnny, Johnny,” he answered, almost fondly. “Obviously you know what's going to happen next.”

John froze, but Moriarty poked at Sherlock. “Go on, then,” he growled. “Be a good boy.”

Sherlock pressed his face into the criminal's leg and nuzzled it like a cat. It was the closest thing to protest John had seen him doing. Moriarty grimaced and slapped the back of his head, making Sherlock blink like he was only now waking up. Moriarty took hold of his hair with a well-manicured hand and hauled his head up, stared at his faraway eyes. The rage inside John, never far under the surface, boiled over immediately.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

It was John's voice, coming out of John's mouth, which was all right because his mind had similar thoughts, only using much stronger vocabulary. His feet, however, had settled into their new position, and kneeling felt almost comforting. Which was weird, because at the same time he wanted to stand up tall and hover above Moriarty, stare defiantly down at him.

“The pet here has some experience in finding veins,” Moriarty said, flicking Sherlock's nose and cheeks until the man blinked again. “High time he put that knowledge into good use. Shoo. Go.”

Sherlock rose up and fetched a suspicious-looking kit from a side table. He seemed uninjured, just tousled, flushed and out of place in his pyjamas and dressing gown, the collar around his long throat only highlighting this peculiar state of clothing. Two pairs of eyes followed his progress across the room, but when he knelt down next to John he wouldn't meet his gaze. His movements were small, measured, wrong. It was like everything which made him Sherlock had been stripped away, and only this husk was left behind. There was no spirit, no inquiry in his expression. John was furious, and not only because he was about to be poked at with unknown needles. At least the things came from clean, closed bags.

“What did you do to him?” John demanded, ignoring the pinch of the needle going in. He wanted to grasp Sherlock's shoulders and shake him, wake him from this weird state of uncaring submission. This wasn't all due to the collar, was it? He'd said wearing it had some mental effects, but this was too big a change, too fast. Had they drugged him?

“Nothing much at all. He's been such a good boy, I must congratulate you,” Moriarty answered, his voice filled with mock innocence, his eyes following the draw of blood into the little container.

“If you've hurt him at all I swear I'll -,” John's mouth started, but then Sherlock pinched him. It was almost nothing, just a whisper of nails brushing over his skin, but it was enough to shut him up. Moriarty looked at them, his expression close to doting. John looked at puppies like that.

To think that the idea of puppies could make him even angrier! Moriarty was indeed the provider of impossible.

“You should've collared him when you had the chance,” the criminal purred. “He's such a pretty toy, and with a mind to match when he's allowed that, I think I'll keep him. Helps with Holmes, as well. All you have to do is encourage him a little and he's happy to crawl for you. Aren't you, boy?”

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock answered with flat voice. He used to sound like that in the middle of experiments, when John tried to tell him something irrelevant, like point out his sleeve was on fire. Now, however, he capped the needle and carried it to the criminal lounging on the sofa. He knelt without being told to, fixed his eyes on Moriarty's gleaming shoes and offered the kit to him. John had to fight not to retch. Sherlock hadn't cleaned the pinprick wound, hadn't put any pressure on it. He clasped his own finger over the smarting skin. Honestly, what the hell?

But the wink had been absolutely real, and he desperately wanted to believe he hadn't imagined the nod or the pinch either. Maybe Sherlock, too, was just playing the game. Did he still have the gun? Where had he hid it? How long was he planning to keep up this charade?

But if this was all just acting, then they were being treated to a master class. And John had seen Sherlock like this before, and it had been cold reality then. What had he said, earlier? That the urge to submit was stronger if he had patches on, or was high, or if the dom was very forceful.

He definitely didn't wear any patches now.

This wasn't good. It wasn't good at all.

“You won't find anything,” John heard himself say. He wondered what would happen when the truth of his condition came into light, if Moriarty would decide to off him straight away. There had to be a way to help Sherlock before it came to that. 

His focus rippled, and then Sebastian was there, standing behind Moriarty's shoulder like a goddamn valet. Moriarty thrust the tubes at him, carelessly over the back of the sofa, and settled back to follow the match.

“What about Holmes?” Moran asked, and John perked up. Yes, indeed. What about Mycroft?

“Taken care of for now,” Moriarty said, gifting John an evil smile. “Sorry. Big brother's going to be quite busy for a moment. Hope you weren't relying on him too much.”

Oh.

“Fuck.”

“Watson?” Moran continued, ignoring John's blunt statement. It was quite the feat, because it had surprised even John himself.

“Leave him here,” Moriarty answered. “We've got something to discuss.”

“And what's that?”

The feeling of not being in charge of his own voice didn't get any less strange. It was like John couldn't help vocalising some of the thoughts that entered his mind as soon as he became aware of them. He didn't need Sherlock telling him that it could be dangerous in a situation like theirs. It had to be Seropidol's doing, this lowering of his inhibitions.

 _Interesting_ , said the little voice of intrigue inside his head.

“Shut up,” he said and grimaced straight after. This was so confusing. It was like his brain had gotten drunk and left his body behind.

Moriarty gave a cold smile to the television screen where small men jumped up and down after scoring a goal, ignoring John's non-sequiturs.

“Wrong team,” he cursed, then, “Sebastian.”

“On it, Boss,” said the large man and left the room. John didn't know what Moran could do about the unsatisfactory sporting result, but he did spot him going for his phone with his spare hand and barking some angry orders at the two guards. Whatever it was, Moriarty was swift in showing his displeasure.

The consulting criminal, meanwhile, had apparently forgotten all about the disappointing match and gone back to staring at John. Too late, John realised that he should probably avert his eyes, the way Sherlock was doing. Moriarty's face turned into an intrigued grin.

“Tell me, Johnny,” he started, kicking his feet wide in front of him, leaving Sherlock kneeling obediently inside the cage of them, “what exactly are you? How did you know those things about me? How do you tick?”

 _Lie_ , screamed John's brain.

 _Don't lie_ , insisted his mind.

–

It hadn't been four whole weeks of flatsharing with the original Sherlock when the (still quite mysterious) man had cocked his head and told him, point-blank as was his wont,

“John, you're an abominable liar. So if you really have to, try to at least tell the kind of lie the listener is already invested in, the kind they want to believe. And for god's sakes, base it on truth. That way, you'll have at least a marginal chance at being successful.”

That had been another London, another Sherlock, but John found himself taking the advice now. He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes as if overcome by strong emotion and admitted,

“It started in Afghanistan, when I was shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 29 will be published on Wednesday, and the very last chapter on Friday. The story is finished, but there's quite a lot of editing still to do. I'm so excited to finally reach the end of this fic!
> 
> Please take the time to tell me what you've thought about it by leaving a comment here or come visit me in [Tumblr Street.](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/)


	29. It Got Worse

Someone really should silence the fricking drums. They were driving him crazy, and he couldn't even find a pillow to hide under. This was the worst trip Sherlock had ever dragged him to, except that one night in the Zurich zoo they didn't talk about, of course. Seriously, fuck those drummers and the holes they'd crawled from. How could anyone get any sleep in this horrible place? Was it some public holiday he had forgotten about, again?

John forced his eyes open and groaned at the pain behind them. Oh _God_ , what had he done? Had tequila shots maybe been involved? He hadn't felt this bad since the end of his first semester in uni. 

Slowly his surroundings started to register, and he blinked at the near-total darkness, confusion riding over the throbbing distress signals his body was sending him. Even without light, one thing was immediately clear. It wasn't a bed he was lying on. This might, after all, be worse than Zurich.

Instead of the expected piece of furniture he was sprawled over old pillows, thin and worn, scattered haphazardly around concrete floor. Turning his neck was hell. There wasn't a muscle group not protesting, and he had a headache of the century. What the everlasting fuck?

And the drumming. It kept bugging him, sending jolts of alert through his body, waking up forgotten memories. He shook his head and waited for the sounds to continue. The next bang came from far away, through many walls, maybe even many floors. The sound was distorted by distance, but he was awake now. He recognised it and sat immediately straighter. Fuck! 

Either New Year had come early this time or those were gunshots! He jumped up, only to fall back to his knees when his head started really protesting about the sudden change of position. What the hell was going on? Where was he? Where was Sherlock?

Wait. There had been some other sound just now, masked by the shots. There. He heard it again.

Someone was whispering. He frowned in concentration.

Sherlock.

It was Sherlock's voice. Calling him, over and over again.

Which was the point when the last twenty-four hours came back to him like a shockwave and he startled up, heart pounding, fingers already curling into fists. The pains of his body were forgotten. Bloody Moriarty.

Sherlock's vacant pliability, the way he'd passively obeyed every order given to him. Moriarty's questions and John's fumbling answers, a tale woven together from the other John's fate, Mycroft's continuous insinuations about Afghanistan and the criminal's own earlier presence there. How John had been kidnapped, experimented on, how he'd heard about the consulting criminal during his captivity. How he had escaped and returned to London under Mycroft's wing. Make-believe, all of it, but it hadn't mattered.

Moriarty had been overjoyed. As lies went, John's was way too convoluted, wouldn't hold any closer inspection, but it didn't have to. Sherlock had been right. Moriarty desperately wanted to believe there was a super-drug out there, one even stronger than Seropidol. He had vowed to get his hands on it. Then he had risen, taken Sherlock with him and -

“John? _John_!”

The door was a steady-looking metal thing, and crawling was the fastest way to get to it, so John did. He crouched close and, leaning his shoulder against its flat surface, listened.

“John!” Quiet, insistent. Worried.

“I'm here.”

A silence followed, long enough for a person to simultaneously sigh in relief and roll his eyes. John sighed, too, but left the rolling for the expert.

“Why couldn't you say so earlier? Wait a moment.”

John slumped against the door. Sherlock sounded impatient, exasperated, normal. Thank God. Something was rattling inside the lock. Doubly thank God.

A gunshot shattered his celebration. He jolted up, heart racing, fingers clawing at the ungiving steel.

“Sherlock! Are you all right?”

“Quiet! I don't know which ones it was. Give me a sec, I wasn't sure I had the right door before you deigned to answer.”

“What, you couldn't deduce it from the markings?” The comeback was automatic, more due to relief than anything else. Maybe Seropidol hadn't yet quite left his system? On the other side of the door, Sherlock snorted.

“I was pretty sure I was in the right corridor, but this place is huge. It hasn't exactly been smooth sailing this far, either.”

John froze. Such an open acknowledgement of vulnerability from Sherlock was almost unheard of. He tried to keep his voice neutral, his fears to himself when he asked, “But what about you? How do you feel?”

“Underestimated,” replied Sherlock, but he sounded tired. There was one more moment of scratching, and then he came stumbling through the door, still in his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. He'd lost the gown somewhere along the way, and that realisation alone blackened John's mood in a second. Moriarty had left, taking Sherlock with him. Inside had come the earlier mooks from the corridor. He had received a sound beating, and they'd thrown him here, promising the Boss would be back the next day. He had yelled until he'd grown hoarse.

But Moriarty had left, taking Sherlock with him. Now here was Sherlock, looking pale and haunted. How long had it been? What had happened?

“Did they hurt you?” He demanded, hungry eyes taking in all the available skin, arms, throat, neck, looking for clues, looking for injury. “Did _he_ hurt you?”

The collar stood defiantly against his glare. He reached for it, needing to see it gone. 

Sherlock, for some reason, pulled back, shame-faced and solemn. Rage clouded John's heart and his fingers curled around thin wrist instead, pressed tight. A rapid pulse fluttered under his skin.

“Sherlock? _Did he_?”

“No,” Sherlock answered, his voice smaller than it should ever be. “Not how you think. It's not what you think.”

“ _Then by God what is it?_ ”

“I -,” Sherlock started, and sounded very young, sounded like he couldn't get quite enough oxygen. He tried to pull himself free, shook his head frantically. “I can't, sorry, John, _Sir_ , please, don't make me, not now. We have to get out.”

There was a growing panic in his voice, and his cheeks flushed crimson pink and it was only then that John looked at his eyes and not his skin – _unspoilt, unspoilt_ – and found them black and fathoms deep. 

“You're high,” he realised. “Bliss?”

Sherlock nodded, avoiding his gaze. “He had it in my veins before we'd reached the ground floor. Took me by surprise, I didn't expect him to act so fast. Didn't expect it at all, really. I thought I'd been amenable enough, that he'd just accept it and take me with him. I should have known better, I'd read his files. After that things got a bit – blurry. I'm sorry.”

John swore, mind flashing to images of Moriarty and a hidden needle, of the long, vulnerable curve of Sherlock's shoulder and neck, of a vicious arm wrapped around them and a thrust, a push emptying the needle's contents into helpless flesh. He'd heard it happening, wondered at that brief struggle. Hoped for the best. Of course, the best rarely came forth when Moriarty was concerned. He should've known better. He should've run to help. Who cared about Moran and his rifle? Sherlock had been attacked, inside 221!

“Do you remember anything?” He demanded. “Anything at all about it?”

God, Moriarty had been alone with him for _hours_. Sherlock had practically been a sentient rag doll the last time John had seen him. What had gone on before he had arrived? What had happened after they'd taken him away?

Death was too merciful for the atrocious bastard. Too merciful and too easy by half. 

Sherlock let out a low moan and sank to his knees, shivering with the suppressed reaction in front of John's fury. “I'm sorry,” he chanted, fingers scraping at the cold concrete as if he trying to dig his way out. “I'm sorry, I tried, I'm so sorry _please_ -,”

John blinked.

“What? No! Sherlock, I'm not mad at you! It's not your fault, it's his, it's Moriarty I'm angry at. Not you.”

Sherlock didn't seem to believe him. He stared at John with huge eyes, drawing painful-sounding breaths and begging for God knew what.

Oh _fuck_ , of course.

“I'm not going to punish you,” John told him sternly and only then realised that they were making quite a lot of noise, at night, in the middle of what practically was an enemy base under attack. One of them was drugged out of his mind and the other had had his arse handed to him repeatedly. It definitely could have been better, but first things first.

Silencing Sherlock easily topped the list.

John grasped him by the despicable collar and hauled him close, closing the door after making sure it wouldn't lock again. They'd have to talk, and the corridor echoed. That done, he turned back to his wheezing lover, wondering how Sherlock had ever made to him if he was still this far under, this easily upset. How he had even managed to escape in the first place.

One thing was clear. Moriarty would suffer.

“Listen to me,” he whispered, keeping his voice soft, reassuring. “Are you listening?”

Sherlock nodded frantically, fingers wrapped around the collar. Yes, he was listening indeed.

“Who am I?”

“Sir,” Sherlock answered at once, frowned, shook his head. “No. No, Sir doesn't want – Jo – _John_.”

Oh Lord. This might take a bit longer than he'd hoped. John could only wish they had that time.

“And who are you?”

Sherlock's mouth opened and John could see all the hateful things his lover had been called during the day trying to fight their way out. Horrified he'd actually choose to call himself by one of those words, John talked right over him.

“Sherlock,” he reminded him, gently. “Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant one, the only one in the world.”

He'd hoped for a calming effect, but instead Sherlock stared at him in near panic, shaking his head in a furious protest.

“No,” he whispered back. “No, no, no. No. Wrong question, it's who-,” but his voice deserted him and he shuffled even closer, offering his throat to John in what seemed to be nearly instinctual pose.

The collar. The collar had to go. John reached for it and Sherlock let out a relieved sigh.

“Not who, not tonight,” he muttered, but then he understood what John was about to do, that his hold was not to claim but to free, and just like that, the distress was back.

“Don't, I'll be good, I promise,” he begged, but John remembered him in the kitchen, earlier, speaking about Victor Trevor and collars, the significance of wearing one. _Not just a physical thing_ , Sherlock had said. Not, indeed.

“Not who but?” John muttered, trying to distract the shivering man for a second, open the lock as discreetly as possible.

“Whose,” came the immediate answer and Sherlock glared at him, as if ordering him to understand. He didn't.

“Whose? You aren't anyone's, Sherlock, you belong only to yourself!”

“Not now,” Sherlock muttered, his voice raw and low even while his body was anything but. “Not here. Him, Bliss, it – it messes with my head. Messed with my head. He said – he said – he didn't hurt me, he said - ”

The collar came free and John let it drop to the floor. Sherlock shuddered, stared at it with huge black eyes.

“Please, just, for now, accept it,” he begged. He wrapped cold fingers around John's hand and raised it to his own throat, pressing into the touch as if it was the only thing keeping him sane, keeping him together.

“He said you wouldn't – said I wasn't - ”

Moriarty needed to die a fiery death, and then he needed to be revived and killed again. Multiple times.

Sherlock knelt, waiting, his expression full of things he refused to say aloud.

John gave up. When in Rome, and so on. The gunshots, whatever they were for, hadn't ceased. They had to move, and John might not understand this, but even he could see that it was tremendously important to Sherlock. He eased the trembling fingers away, pressed gently into the insistent pulse.

“Mine,” he sighed. “Sherlock, whose are you?”

“Yours,” the kneeling man agreed at once, sagging against John's hold.

“Mine,” John muttered again. “Fuck it, bloody Property of John Watson. Not his. Not ever Moriarty's, no matter what he pumps into you or tries to tell you. Say it aloud, love.”

“Not his,” Sherlock repeated, his voice worn beyond exhaustion. “No matter what he -. John, could you, is there anything, I'm sorry, just for a little while, just until my head clears - ”

His words faded into sighs but his eyes kept on turning towards the discarded collar and it was only then that John realised just how scared he had been before. Moriarty had done something, or said something, to convince Sherlock of – what, actually? The Spider had a way with words. It could have been anything at all, when he'd had Sherlock drugged and unable to defend himself.

This wasn't the time or the place to force those memories out. Somehow, Sherlock had still broken free, found John and only allowed himself to go to pieces afterwards. That was all that mattered. Reassurance, it was all his friend wanted. A little reassurance, and who could blame him for that?

Timothy Emerson's hateful collar was out of the question. John looked around, searching, but there was nothing in the small room except for the pillows on the floor.

“I can't -,” he started, but Sherlock pushed into his hand, more insistently. Apparently, saying no wasn't an option.

The inspiration hit and he released his hold, much to Sherlock's imminent annoyance.

“Just, wait, let me - ”

A titanium chain and its dog tags gleamed even in the gloom of the room. Sherlock stared at it, mouth open but no words emerging.

“I don't think it's exactly what Mycroft had in mind,” John admitted. “Lean forward, would you?”

Sherlock's forehead hit the ground. John let out a nervous giggle.

“A little less would be perfect, that's good, how's this?”

“Tighter,” said Sherlock.

A moment of adjustment followed.

“Tighter.”

“I don't think -,”

“Tighter!”

“Fine, fine. How about now?”

This merited a consideration, and soon Sherlock nodded, his cheeks flushing a pretty pink.

“That's perfect,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

John let out a relieved sigh.

“Let's get out of here.”

–

The old power station was eerily quiet. The shooting had stopped a moment ago, for no reason they could see, and yet there wasn't a soul anywhere. Sherlock led him through the dim corridors silently, his bare feet thumping against the hard floors. John followed the best he could, taking care not to step on any of the iron grates which covered the floor every few yards. The lack of guards was more disturbing than any regular patrols could have been. It wasn't correct. It worried him.

“Do you still have it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered back, peeking behind the next corner and gesturing at his pyjama bottoms. John couldn't believe it.

“ _How?_ ” 

“I told you. They underestimated me. I hid it under that sofa. Even he underestimated me, in the end. He talked and talked to me. Said - . Anyway, by the end of it he was sure direct orders would be enough to keep me quiet. Didn't Bliss me out, didn't even cuff me when the shooting started. Idiot.”

“Do you know what the shooting was about? Mycroft?”

_Please please let it be Mycroft._

“I'm not sure. It's not his style, but I suppose it's either him or some random group of criminals fighting for the same hideout. I almost hope it's the latter. If Mycroft's men are this incompetent, I despair for Britain.”

Sherlock sounded so normal that John had to reign back an urge to push him against the wall and snog him senseless. This wasn't the time, and certainly not the place, but God, was it good to hear him voice derisive opinions about the world once again.

“It's gone quiet now. Who do you suppose won?”

“I don't know,” Sherlock admitted, and right after that all Hell broke loose. Loud shouts were uttered somewhere behind them, all the lamps were turned on and suddenly John was missing the darkness as fiercely as he had loathed it a moment ago.

“Shit,” Sherlock muttered, grasped his hand and drew him into run, all caution thrown away.

After two more turns they found themselves face to face with an astonished boy. John didn't even stop to knock him out, just let his fist connect with the youth's chin as they rushed past him. No way that was one of Mycroft's, and any other option meant trouble for them. The young man dropped like a stone.

“They'll find him,” Sherlock muttered even as he was pulling him away. “They'll know we were here.”

“He'd have shouted if I didn't,” John answered, straining to keep up. “They'd known faster that way. Do you know where you're going?”

The loud shouts became louder, and then stopped. Soon, however, they continued again, more intently than before.

“Found him,” Sherlock muttered and turned yet another corner. “They're close. Take the gun.”

Sticking a hand into a running man's pants turned out to be more difficult than John could have guessed. Having the familiar weight of Mary's weapon in his hand helped his nerves, however. But what he saw when he glanced at it almost made him stumble and fall over.

“Sherlock! The safety's off!”

“Yes. Run faster.”

“But – how long? How long have you been traipsing around with a loaded gun just waiting to go off in your stupid silky pants?”

They rushed into an industrial hall. Four men stood on the other side of the room, guarding a large door. They didn't look like government agents at all. Sherlock stopped, turned around and pushed John into another corridor. A bullet hit the wall over their heads. Yep. Not Mycroft's.

“Just run!”

They did. John peeked back, at the receding hall and the advancing men.

“That was the exit, wasn't it?”

“Yes.”

“There's another one, isn't there?”

Sherlock didn't answer.

“Isn't there!”

The loudspeakers on the corridor came to life with Moriarty's oily, suffocating Voice.

“ **John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, kneel!** ”

Sherlock's feet buckled. John caught his arm over his shoulder, pulled him to the nearest side door and hoped, hoped.

It opened.

They collapsed inside.

–

John ended up splayed over the grey-faced Sherlock. Fuck this. They didn't have time for this now. He grasped the dog tags, hauled Sherlock's head close to his own.

“You listen to me now, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered furiously. “We've established that you're mine. _Mine_. You only take bloody orders from me. No one else, not ever again. And above all, you don't take them from Moriarty.”

Sherlock blinked, then nodded. “Yes, Sir,” he answered, face twisting into a confused smile. John pulled him up, glanced around. There was another door, thank God.

“And no stuffing guns into your pants either,” he grumbled, opened the door just as the other one was kicked in. He drew his gun, fired a warning shot and slipped out after the stumbling Sherlock.

The everlasting sound of traffic was his first clue, the smell of Thames the next one. The rainfall on his overheated skin completed the picture. They were outside. John risked a glance around, hoping to spot an escape route.

“Fuck!”

It was an old wharf, completely surrounded by deep water. The door was the only way out if one wished to stay dry. Somewhere on the other side of the factory building, gunshots could still be heard. The Thames side was quiet, until someone attempted to open the door. John fired again, even as Sherlock pulled him back, towards the end of the pier.

“There are some boxes down there, come on,” he urged him, and then Moriarty's Voice came through the loudspeakers again just as the door burst open.

“ **John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, kneel!** ”

They ran. The rain had made the old wood slippery, and they slid the last feet, ducking down to cover behind the small crates. As a shelter against bullets, it was near to useless. As a place to catch their breath, it wasn't much better.

“Can you swim?” They asked it simultaneously, both keeping their eyes on the door. Every time someone tried to come out, John fired a shot.

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“No,” said John.

“Fuck,” said Sherlock.

“That's what I said,” answered John.

Three men rushed outside, each holding a hastily found shield in front of him, each firing a gun from behind it. They ducked low, held their breath as the bullets flew over.

“They aren't trying to kill,” Sherlock whispered. “We'd be dead already if they did.”

“ **Sherlock, darling, come here** ,” called Moriarty's Voice from behind his men when the attack had ceased. John shot a nervous glance at his companion, but Sherlock closed his eyes, squeezed the dog tags tightly.

“I won't,” he promised, biting his teeth together.

“ **Come here and we let Johnny go. Be a good boy.** ”

Sherlock shook his head and kept on shaking. His face turned pained and his legs convulsed, tried to get up despite his mind's protests. John held his arm, chanted his name over and over again. Moriarty's Voice grew enticing.

“ **Come here or my men will shoot. Not you. Him.** ”

Sherlock threw his hand over John's neck to keep him down and raised his voice, shouted back.

“I will if you show yourself to me.”

John struggled against the hold, fear surging into his veins. No. Sherlock couldn't. He couldn't.

“No! Sherlock, don't!”

“ **Sherlock Holmes, come to Daddy. Come NOW.** ”

“Step forward!” Sherlock shouted and then turned to John, whispering furiously. “Keep _down_! He'll have you shot! He won't kill me, he needs me for Mycroft.”

“ **This is your last chance. Rise up.** ”

Sherlock did, and three things happened simultaneously. John sprang after him. Moriarty's men dropped their shields to shoot, leaving their boss unguarded, and Sherlock raised Mary's gun and pulled the trigger in one sinuous movement.

For a blink of an eye, the world held its breath. John's fingers connected with Sherlock's t-shirt. The cotton felt soft and real, unlike everything else around him. His mouth opened for a shout.

The world jerked back into sound.

A helicopter rose over the old building and headed for the piers. A hungry, red hole drilled itself between James Moriarty's eyes and his knees gave way. His men yelled, and fired, and John jumped between Sherlock and the danger, pushing him down again. Something hit his back and he rolled over, and then it was _Sherlock_ screaming and he forced himself up again, fighting for breath.

No. He wouldn't fail twice. He refused to fail twice. Nothing else mattered, but Sherlock would leave this place in one piece. This time, John would be worth his word.

“Stay down you suicidal moron,” Sherlock was shouting at him, which was _absurd_ , because John wasn't the one fooling around with a loaded gun. He opened his mouth to inform Sherlock of that, and then the chopper was hovering over them and the box they were hiding behind exploded into their faces and John forgot everything except his need. To protect. Sherlock. He rolled over his lover, away from the splinters, and then he saw the blood on the angular face under him. Oh no. No.

“You've been hit!”

“No, you idiot!” Sherlock roared, rolling over him in turn, which was wrong, _wrong_ , and needed to be corrected immediately. “ _You've_ been hit! Watch out!”

The warning came too late, because John, in his haste to get between Sherlock and the bullets, rolled them both over the edge of the planks and into Thames. The hard surface of the water met them face on and surged up over their backs. A hail of bullets followed them into the cold gloom, and his shoulder twitched. His arms flailed. His lungs constricted. He knew he was sinking, saw the surface rising farther and farther above him, no matter how much he tried to beat the water, force his body upwards. He couldn't see anything else except the dimming light, couldn't feel anything else except the burning of his limbs and the pressure in his lungs. He couldn't see, couldn't find Sherlock anywhere.

But Sherlock could swim. Sherlock was whole and Sherlock could swim and the chopper had been right _there_. He'd be all right. He'd do just fine. He'd dive under the wharf and hide there until danger had passed. He'd get a lift home from his brother. Moriarty was dead, and without the spider, the rest of his web would soon be gone as well.

Sherlock was safe. John had succeeded.

He felt heavy, so very heavy and tired. He distantly wondered where the bullet had hit this time. This was a better way to die than an ambush in Afghanistan, he decided. Soon, he'd have to open his mouth, accept Thames into his body. His arms didn't have the strength to fight anymore. His legs were kicking out, but it was more out of principle than any real effort.

He closed his eyes, opened his mouth. And when he swallowed and swallowed, trying to find the oxygen which wasn't coming, he couldn't help but think that this must be some sort of cosmic justice. He'd got his wish. He'd saved Sherlock. Now the multiverse was fixing the anomaly which was his presence here. John Watson was dead, after all. So let him stop living. Let him stop fighting against the inevitable. Give him some peace, at last.

He drifted.


	30. Saudade, Revisited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a deep breath. Ready?
> 
> Here we go.

John was limp and heavy when Sherlock finally located him, floating face down in the river, the blood from the gash on his back washed away. His skin was grey and his lips blue, and Sherlock hauled him over his chest and dragged him to the shore, frantically looking for a pulse even while he was still swimming, still kicking as fast as his legs allowed, still yelling for Mycroft.

By principle, Sherlock Holmes was not a man given to any kind of fancy. That's what he'd kept on telling himself ever since he'd understood his lot in life, and he'd been very successful in keeping that notion up until very recently. But.

There had to be a pulse.

Not finding a pulse was simply not an option.

“No you don't, you bastard,” he muttered, reliving the horrible moments in the water after he had lost John, when no amount of flailing or searching hadn't led him back to his touchstone. He'd had to return to the surface, gulp for air and dive back again. And again. And again. The chopper had disappeared during that last dive, probably off on his brother's orders to not put any more attention on Sherlock while he was being uncooperative in the water. Damn Mycroft. For once, Sherlock would have accepted his help, would have welcomed those extra eyes and hands from above to aid in his search. But then he'd had John on his arms and everything else had been forgotten.

He didn't claim to understand the events that had brought John Watson to him. By most parts, he didn't claim to understand _John_ , this man who so effortlessly combined nerves of steel with childlike innocence, who had ripped apart his walls like they were nothing, like Sherlock hadn't spent better part of his life constructing them.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was not a man given to fancy, but right then he would have given anything, _anything at all_ to find John alive and well. Just.

Well, he had found John.

Now to find that pulse.

_Pleasepleaseplease._

Somehow Sherlock reached the shore and dragged them both out of the river, grateful that the tide was low. He let his precious load down and dropped next to him, unheeding of the slime and the debris sticking into his toes and feet, of the wet cotton wrapping around his legs. He didn't have a phone to contact Mycroft with and yell at until something positive happened. It was just him, then, him and John.

“It's good that you're so small,” he told the listless body on his arms. John, damn him, refused to take the bait, stayed dead silent.

_You're nothing and he's going to leave you. He's going to grow disgusted with you and leave you and leave you and leave you and you'll crawl back to me because I at least understood your petty existence and knew to put a collar on you and put you on your place. And he'll forget you and never ever ever even think about again unless it's with his mates when he's drunk and then he'll laugh and laugh and laugh._

No.

“Shut up, you're dead,” he muttered, clutching at the glimmering tags, staring at the blue lips and the rivulets of hair plastered against that vulnerable skull.

Sherlock set to work, not once wondering where all the gunmen had disappeared to.

–

Dying by drowning was pleasurable when compared to being revived, John found out many minutes later when the sweaty, panting Sherlock turned him to his side and he threw up half of Thames and then some. His lungs were _on fire_ from the pain of oxygen rushing back to where only water had resided moments before. Breathing hurt, hurt terribly, as did absolutely everything else.

“John!”

He collapsed into his own watery vomit, too tired to do anything about it. Sherlock took him by the shoulders, turned him back onto his side.

“John, please, say something.”

John mustered enough energy to blink. Clearly Sherlock had never tried drowning. He couldn't even begin to imagine speaking. His lungs tried to retch again and he let out a piteous mewl, which burned a bright path of agony into his throat.

Yep. No talking, probably never again.

“Fuck you, John Watson,” Sherlock cursed, and his voice sounded horrible. John blinked again, proud of his effort in their conversation. He felt too tired to wonder at being alive. He felt too tired to be alive in the first place. He closed his eyes.

“I take it you can't stand,” said Sherlock's broken voice, somewhere far away, and then John's lungs started burning even more, and a moment later he realised this was because Sherlock had just lifted him up and was now carrying him towards the river's paved bank.

It told volumes of his mental state that he couldn't muster enough energy to be anything else than apathetic about the carrying. He did his best not to retch all over Sherlock's t-shirt. He was mostly successful.

“Can't even take you to a bloody hospital,” Sherlock muttered, and John let himself go limp to the steady sound of dog tags clinking together.

No hospital. Obvious reasons. Yes.

–

He jerked back awake in a cab to a Sherlock yelling at the driver about Baker Street, pneumonia and British Government in the same sentence. He wondered idly how a raving, half-naked, wholly wet man who carried around an unconscious, equally dripping wet person had managed to catch a cab in the first place.

The cabbie seemed to ponder the same thing.

John decided it wasn't his problem what would happen when the cabbie found out that neither of them had half a pound on themselves. Instead, he drifted out again.

–

The next time he came around he was sprawled over the steps of 221 and Sherlock was searching through his pockets for keys. A couple of passer-bys quickened their steps, clearly unwilling to share any part in this early-hours drama unfolding in public.

“Trousers,” John said and immediately regretted it. His voice felt as feeble as a newborn's. _He_ felt as feeble as a newborn. His input was met with a sniff and an order not to strain his lungs, but Sherlock fished the keys from their pocket and soon John was lying on the floor instead of the pavement. The front room was deserted, all traces of Mycroft's bested squad had been brushed away.

“Stairs,” Sherlock sighed, sounding almost as tired as John felt.

“No need,” he mumbled an answer. “Can stay here. Go check on Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock, predictably, snorted his disdain.

“Don't be an idiot. She'll be all right. Just give me a moment.”

They took their moment, John staring at the few things he could see from the floor. They included the dusty bottom of Mrs Hudson's little ornamental table and Sherlock's pale, tightly-drawn face. He looked sick, sick and worried. John frowned, hoping he could do something to help.

“Hey,” he said gently, but Sherlock sneered at him.

“Shut up,” he answered. “Just shut up and breathe, you moron. You're bleeding again, she'll have a fit. Let's go.”

And so John was hauled back up and Sherlock headed for the stairs. The climb was slow, and it soon became clear that the detective's own strength was running low. He made it up the first set of stairs, but they collapsed on the half-way turn with a defeated clatter.

Upstairs, a door opened.

“Who's there?” A familiar voice called.

Behind John, Sherlock went very still, and, if possible, even paler than he had been before. Next came the sound of steps descending, then abruptly stopping. John gazed up in exhaustion.

Sherlock stood at the stairs, staring down at him with the kind of wild expression he had never, ever seen on that remarkable face. He looked horrible, looked like he hadn't rested in months, like he had been on a continuous case since Christmas, like he was losing that case.

“John,” he breathed out, like it was the most wondrous word he knew, a word he had forgotten and only just now remembered again.

John frowned. He admitted he was quite out of things, but hadn't Sherlock just been -

He turned around and saw Sherlock, hand possessively on his shoulder, staring likewise up, looking like he could be knocked over with a feather. Like he already had been.

John frowned again. Something was not right here. He looked upwards again. Sherlock took a trembling step down the stairs, almost stumbled over his feet, long fingers clawing for the railing.

Behind John's back, Sherlock let out a sound which could courteously be described as a gurgle.

In front of John, Sherlock reached out for him.

Behind John, Sherlock raised another hand to his shoulders, gripping tight.

There were two hands on his shoulders. Then there were three. Four. John opened his mouth, closed it. This was.

Sherlock raised tired, pained eyes from John's face, stared over his head. John followed his gaze, into the face of another Sherlock, protectively hunching behind him. The two pairs of grey eyes met, hold. Four sets of fingers tightened over John's shoulders, pushing, pulling. He went with the motion, too stunned to even try to fight back.

“Well, fuck me,” John finally gasped into the long, incredulous silence. “Fuck me sideways. It happened _again_.”

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you for everyone who has read, kudosed, commented or Tumblred! Without you, this fic would look very different today. I owe you.


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